


But One Day I Will Return To Your Arms

by FromAshesToStardust



Series: The Cracks In Our World [4]
Category: Lolitics, Political RPF, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Actual shitshow, Adultery, Alternate Reality, Angst, Apocalypse, At this point in time, Battle Bus, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Bus Sex, Bute House, CCTV, Candles, Cats, Character Death, Charlotte Square, Child Loss, Childbirth, Christmas, Christmas Carols, Cigarettes, Comedy, Daddy Kink, Deception, Downing Street, Drug Use, Edinburgh, Edinburgh Book Festival, F/F, F/M, Fic Graveyard, Fluff, Freedom, GCHQ, Gangsters, Gen, God Complex, Grave Robbers, Gun Violence, Holyrood, Hospitals, Hostage Situations, I know it's not great but hear me out, I'm Also Going To Hell, I'm embracing my sin, IKEA, IKEA Furniture, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Insanity, Inspired by Music, Kidnapping, Lesbian Sex, Light Bondage, London, M/M, Magic, Marital Discourse, Mind Control, Mind Slave, Mother-Son Relationship, Multi, Mummy kink, Murder, Non-Graphic Violence, Original Character(s), Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Polyamorous Character, Pregnancy, Reader-Insert, Reality Bending, Robbery, Running Away, SIN IN ITS PUREST FORM, SNP Conference, Scotland, Scottish Character, Scottish National Party, Secret Service - Freeform, Self Aware, Shameless Smut, Silent Night, Simulation, Souls, Teleportation, Truth, blunt force trauma, music box, self-aware
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 06:12:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12359217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromAshesToStardust/pseuds/FromAshesToStardust
Summary: Last of the Quadrilogy. Nicola begins her new life with Margaret - Theresa May's daughter. But waiting on the other side of reality are the ghosts of their past, seething for revenge. What will happen when the two realities collide? Will the duo make it out alive? Or will the consequences of their actions finally envelop their newly found lives?





	1. So Here I Am

“And so, conference, I stand here today not as a reminder of the past, but as a leader of the future. Standing up for our country in the face of adversity. Bringing hope and smiles to the faces of children alike. I stand here not as a warning signal for the days ahead, but as a green light to social progression. And I hope you'll join me in my endeavours”. The hall roared with fervent anticipation for their new leader. The SNP had been in decline since Nicola stepped aside to make way for a fresh, new face. But the new leadership had caused the party to lose its traction, crumbling without the stability brought by the Sturgeon/Murrell administration.

 

Nicola stood proudly behind her podium with the wind in her wings, standing to attention in the limelight, standing tall on the stage. Behind her waved the projection of a saltire on its own in the breeze, symbolising a bonnie Scottish dream dating back millennia; the vision of independence and prosperity had truly been revived. And nothing was going to stand in its way.

 

The figure then waved at the crowd as she marched mightily across of the stage to greet the cameras with a countenance rich in pride. The flashing lights complimented her every movement and the sound of a thousand shutters spasming filled her head with renewed confidence. Finally, after years of repetitive self-inflicted abuse upon her esteem, Nicola now believed beyond any doubt that she was once again capable of taking up office. And now all she needed was her majority back.

 

The fierce lioness advanced down the back-stage corridors with a million soldiers at her feet. Every servant took their turn at vying for her undying attention. Whether it be through autographs or photographs, the re-elected First Minister of Scotland would comply with the wants of her minions accordingly, scribbling away at inanimate objects before hiding herself in the comfort of the shambolic press room. There, she greeted MPs and MSPs alike alongside assistants and civil servants who'd tagged along for the banter. Whilst some journalists sat typing away at their fancy keyboards huddled into a corner, others made their presence emphatically more prevalent to the naked eye. And to Nicola, these extroverted maniacs seemed merely like flamboyant caricatures who'd had a bit too much to drink.

 

“Aim just gonnae heed tae ma dressing room!” blurted Nicola as she spectated the evolution of a growing farce before her very eyes.

 

“Ah dinnae blame ya, hen!” cried Tasmina, clutching onto her half-empty glass of wine, “Take care, noo!”

 

“Aye, ah will, hen!”. And with that, Nicola bundled herself down a quieter corridor and into her dressing room.

 

“Evening, Mummy” purred Maggie as her girlfriend entered the room. She was handcuffed to the radiator and was dressed solely in a red corset and a pair of black stockings. Lasciviously, the girl sat upon a grey bean bag biting at her stained lips whilst the computer screen in front of her faded as the SNP conference live stream ended its transmission. It was evident from the vibrator concealed within her crotch that'd she'd enjoyed Nicola's speech a little too much.

 

“Oh, my wee girl. You look like you've been busy whilst I was gone” she moaned, “And I can tell by just looking at your exhausted wee face that you've been using my vibrator again!”. Maggie giggled at the suggestion.

 

“I'll uncuff you on the condition that you give me a wee blowjob to make up for it”

 

“Always”

 

“Good,” Nicola asserted as she briskly turned the door key, “and I expect you to play rough this time, okay?”.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jamie Ross was a deer in the headlights. Carefully, he tread with a catatonic expression of dread solidifying his face. He was desperately trying to avoid anyone and everyone who could potentially interrogate him about the karaoke party. And wee Mhairi Black was, in that moment, the equivalent of the plague.

 

Skillfully, he skittered across the hall like a spider on a linoleum floor, expertly dodging and ducking the incessant bombardment of leaflets coming his way almost like he was a fighter pilot in a foreign country's airspace. And then right there in front of him shone a glimmer of hope. A sight so rare and so beautiful that it could make a grown man cry. Because in his line of vision he saw an opening which revealed an area of open space which lead directly to the exit. Jamie couldn't believe his eyes.

 

Frantically, Jamie dashed through the crowd, racing to the glorious exit which awaited him, inviting him home and firmly away from this mess of a conference. But before his fingers could press against the door, an imposing figure intercepted his advance, forbidding him from moving another muscle. It was Mhairi Black. And now, there was no turning back.

 

“Ahem,” she began, “where d'ya think you're going, pal?”

 

“Home” he nodded, adamant on his decision. Mhairi cackled.

 

“Nice try, Ross. But you cannae escape from us _that_ easily”. Before Jamie even had time to react, he found himself being crammed into a metal cage, the door slamming against his ass cheeks.

 

“You have some karaoke tae do, don't cha think?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Maggie found herself laying peacefully against Nicola's abdomen when she awoke. A comforting hand massaged her scalp as she dared to look up to see Nicola's cheeky grin scanning her sculpted body.

 

“It's 2 AM, Mags. You should still be asleep” she giggled, complimenting the gentle hum of the TV in the background.

 

“Says you” she replied, lifting herself up to lay on her chest. But there was a curious twitch in Margaret's mind, almost as if a fragment of doubt had enveloped from the month before. For truth be told, Maggie was still conscious when she laid dying in Nicola's arms. And truth be told, Maggie remembered and knew full well how Nicola had cheated in her previous relationships. Whether it had been on Peter or Leanne, she had always gone out of her way to track down another mate – and that's what troubled Maggie the most. Because she was inevitably going to be next.

 

“Mum,” Maggie whispered as Nicola began stroking her inner thigh, “I don't want to sound rude but how do I know that I can trust you not to run off with another girl?”

 

“Because I've done so much to find you, sweetheart”

 

“I'm going to need a better reason than that”. Nicola compliantly sat up, allowing Maggie to straddle her lap. Her eyes stared attentively into her own, warming yet disconcerting Maggie to her core. Nicola's gentle fingers ventured their way back to Margaret's underwear.

 

“Because I'm proud of my little girl. And I would do anything to make her happy. And I would fight for you no matter the cost. And I will always be by your side whether in life or death. And I'm not giving either of us a choice”. Nicola licked her fingertips before gliding them down into Margaret's underwear, fondly circling her throbbing clitoris will all the love and attention it deserved. Maggie let out a quiet moan but steadied herself against the headboard, allowing Nicola to push two fingers deep inside of her.

 

“Because, my darling girlfriend, I would never betray you like I betrayed others in the past. I'm over that faze. It was a twisted midlife crisis, my dear” she continued, maintaining a tantalising rhythm which drove Maggie mad with pleasure.

 

“Because I'm serious about us. I have even bought us a wee cottage in the Highlands, away from the ghosts of our past. I have everything planned out. And so I want you to trust me will your heart and soul. Because this time, I swear on my life...I will be different”. Maggie thrust her head back and held her body even closer to her lover. The lust had inundated her system and was gushing through her veins.

 

“Please, Mummy. Harder...please,” she begged as tears welled in her eyes, “I love you so much, Mummy. Please”.

 

“Very well, baby girl. Let me get my strap-on”. Gently, Nicola positioned Maggie against the side of the bed, wrapping her wrists together with a satin rope, leaving a kiss on her crotch before meandering towards her suitcase. Nicola adjusted the harness as she slid it on and inserted a large, 8-inch dildo to it, lathering it in layers upon layers of tingling lubricant.

 

“Oh honey,” she groaned, “you won't be able to stand when I'm finished with you”. Maggie bit the sheets in anticipation.

 

“Is it the big one, again?” she whined.

 

“Och aye, sweetheart. I'll be gentle this time”. Steadily, Nicola eased herself inside Maggie's tight entrance, causing her to whimper as the pleasure left her light-headed. Despite this, Maggie was left begging for more. And with each plea came harder thrusts. And with harder thrusts came louder pleas. And very soon, both females became out-of-breath.

 

“MUMMY!” Margaret yelled at the top of her lungs as Nicola pulled herself closer to her trembling core, ramming her with lust harder and significantly faster.

 

“Hush now, kitten. We can't have everyone getting jealous now, can we?”. Nicola dug a hand under her legs and began rubbing against Maggie's clitoris again. But this time it was enough to drive Maggie over the brink of orgasm.

 

As she let out a silent cry, Nicola allowed her to cum in her arms. And as she slid off the harness, Nicola saw just how much of a mess they'd made. The side of the mattress and the floor was practically soaked in a mix of vaginal juices and lubricant. And their legs were only further coated in the stuff.

 

“I forgot just how wet you become when you're horny” Nicola giggled as she took the limp female into her grasp. Maggie just smiled as they cuddled up together under the cleaner side of the duvet.

 

“I love you, Nicola”

 

“I love you too, Maggie”.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Leanne stormed the gloomy streets of London, fog dissipating at the sound of her war march. Behind her trailed a grief-stricken Peter Murrell in fits of tears and self-loathing. My God, did he miss his family.

 

“All this time...and Nicola had her. All this time,” he sniffed, wiping tear stains from his cheeks, “and yet I have been blind”

 

“Quit your sobbing, Murrell. They'll be back soon. I'll make sure of it. I just need to track down the location of...”. Bingo. She'd found it: GCHQ. That imposing structure held every answer to her queries. And now, it was firmly in her grasp.

 

“What?” he whined, desperate and humiliated.

 

“Hush now, Murrell”

 

“DINNAE TELL ME WHIT TAE DAE, LEANNE!”. Leanne swivelled to face the distraught man with all the good intentions of a Lion endeavouring to swallow its freshly killed prey. Vigorously, she pulled him off the ground by his collar and met his pasty expression with her imposing glare.

 

“If you want even the slightest chance of seeing Nicola and your daughter ever again, I suggest you shut up, stop your bleating, and follow me. Got it?”

 


	2. All Your Thoughts And Imperfections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theresa tries to escape Downing Street without raising the alarm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y/F/N - Your Full Name  
> Y/A - Your Age

The Sun's welcoming rays splintered through the slits of her eyes as consciousness seeped in before her. It was 9.18 AM again. What was it with her life and consistency?

 

An attentive hand through swept Maggie's ruffled hair, tucking it neatly behind her ear. Maggie's mind halted for a moment as she savoured the adoration in Nicola's caress, accidentally letting out a quiet moan. Oh, how she loved waking up beside her.

 

“Good morning, sweetheart” she hummed as she laid up against the velvet headboard. The mature woman cupped a freshly bought book in the palms of her hands as her naked body exposed itself to the morning light. And as per usual, Nicola's countenance had lit up with profound pride and intense infatuation as Maggie rolled over to face her.

 

“Morning” she muttered back, wrapping an arm and a leg around her medium-built body. Longingly, Maggie snuggled her forehead into Nicola's chest, pulling herself closer into the embrace.This allowed a cheeky Nicola to lock her right arm around her waist and squeeze at her hips.

 

Nicola chuckled as she laid a kiss on Maggie's forehead.

 

“It would be a right laugh if your Mother was in that wardrobe again”. Maggie snickered.

 

“I think she's learnt that lesson the hard way, don't you think?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

And here she was: Theresa May, connoisseur of wardrobe entrapment. Of all the days for this to happen, it just had to be the day the world was due to end.

 

Outside the confines of her wooden box stood two bickering MPs who had been forced to work together for 'the greater good of mankind'. Together, Tim Farron and Amber Rudd had been tasked to guide this wardrobe through the back of 11 Downing Street without raising the suspicions of the SS agents who were still hunting down Y/F/N. Or at least, that's what _they_ thought anyway.

 

“Amber, if you move it anymore to the right, you'll scratch the paintwork”

 

“It's Downing Street, for Christ's sake,” she refuted, “it's practically indestructible!”

 

“And what if it isn't?!” Timothy exclaimed, stopping to catch his breath on the bannister, “What are you going to do then? Claim it on your expenses?!”

 

“Tim, there are more important things to worry about right now”

 

“But Amber, the Secret Service aren't morons! If we're careless, we'll end up leaving hints for them. They'll find out where we are!”

 

“Do you think they won't bother accessing the CCTV, then? Or what about covering the exits? It's not like they do that _all_ the bloody time or anything”

 

“Just shut up,” he finished, heaving the weight of half the wardrobe and Theresa May in his grasp, “and be careful”

 

“Fine!”. Eventually, the duo emerged from the back entrance of Downing Street unscathed. All collateral damage was kept to a minimum. However, they were slightly suspicious of Larry who they were sure had sussed out the details of what they were trying to do and who looked like, if he could speak English, would snitch on them to the Americans. Bloody Larry. But Larry was only a harmless cat, _surely._ And besides, it's not like Larry _had_ any friends.

 

Exhausted, Amber and Tim carefully placed the wardrobe on the slabs outside. They leaned up against it as they caught their breath, wondering what the next step in their highly improvised shitshow could possibly be.

 

“Theresa,” Amber inquired, notably out of breath “are you alright in there?”

 

“Yes. I think. I do ought to warn you though, my past experiences with wardrobes haven't exactly been dignified”

 

“What do you mean? Were you trapped in there naked or something?”. Before she could reply, Tim intervened, reminding the trio to keep their voices down. But as they huddled around the wardrobe, desperately trying to come up with an intelligent advancement to the narrative, Jeremy Corbyn pulled up in his battle bus and honked the horn obnoxiously loud, causing Theresa May to almost fall into cardiac arrest.

 

“Comrades!” he yelled very indiscreetly from the side of the road, “Need a lift?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Leanne took society by storm. Employees and bosses alike scrambled to move out of her field of view as she marched across the vast linoleum at an alarming rate. With her head up and shoulders back, Leanne Wood was untouchable.

 

As expected, however, Peter Murrell trailed drearily behind, still despondent and forlorn at his recent losses, which made his face look sort-of droopy, to say the least.

 

As the duo turned the corner, headed for the elevator, Peter surmounted Leanne's plea for silence and resumed blaming himself like the absolute ~~wanker~~ grieving widow he is.

 

“I THOUGHT SHE LOVED ME!” he echoed down the lifeless halls, causing Leanne to roll her eyes, “Leanne, she loved me...right?”

 

“She did. And she probably still does” she sighed. Childcare was just not her forte.

 

“Peter, you wouldn't understand her thoughts and feelings. Nor would anyone for that matter. You should know better than anyone that there is more than meets the eye with your wife”

 

“Then why did she do it? And why with _my_ daughter?”

 

“Peter, I don't-”

 

“WHY, LEANNE? WHY CAN'T I KNOW?”

 

“Peter, you wouldn't-”

 

“I'M USUALLY THE CALM ONE, LEANNE. DINNAE PULL THIS SHITE ON ME!”

 

“PETER!” she roared, “YOU DIED!”. Leanne violently swivelled to face him lined with an expression which was brimming with rage. Pure rage. Outrage, for a matter of fact.

 

“You died,” she hissed, “and she got over it”. The silence was ringing in their ears. The animosity was almost unbearable. And the tension was about to reach breaking point.

 

Luckily for their friendship, an amicable ding interrupted their futile dispute, ushering the couple into the elevator and shutting out the negativity, leaving it firmly on the ground floor. The both of them swallowed back their squabbling in embarrassment.

 

“At least _now_ we can find out the truth”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“No, Jeremy” ruled Amber as she marched indignantly over to the red machine, “But what you do need is a smack in the face”

 

“YAAAAAAAAAR!!” bellowed Timothy as he knocked Jeremy off his feet in one big swoop. Corbyn crashed to his knees as Tim began beating him with the red budget box whilst yelling obscenities at his figure like the perfect Christian he is.

 

“HOW DARE YOU!” he spat (and quite literally too).

 

“HOW DARE YOU LEAVE HER TO DIE! SHE WAS ONLY Y/A! HOW DARE YOU! YOU'RE NOT THE JEREMY I KNOW AND LOVE!”. Tim paused his little debacle when he realised what he has just said.

 

“Because I...I do love you...J-Jeremy...”. Amber Rudd looked on in amazement as she realised that this was the narrative advancement of her dreams; Theresa's face became flushed with a gurn steeped in jealousy as her elderly fuck-buddy became gay for a man who wasn't her husband.

 

And in that tender moment, their prolonged eye-contact paired them together for life. And as the author found another way to make this series gay, Timothy realised that it had been the Jeremy he loved all along. He was just yet to figure out why.

 

Jeremy reached into his pocket and pulled out a bullet-shaped device. It was flashing red in his fingertips but it could do no harm. It was the hijacking device Trump tried and failed to shoot at Theresa. And now, the leader of the opposition held it triumphantly in his arms as a bruise formed on his left shoulder.

 

“Are you being fucking serious right now?” said everyone ever. And that was the beginning of that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Woven In My Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's back.

It was just another sunny day for Ed Balls as he pranced the cobbles of a London street like dust twirling in Sun's rays. He twisted and tumbled and flew in the crisp air like an elephant who had failed to notice the cliff he's about to jump off of. So innocent and kind was his presence. 'Twas a shame all of this was about to grind to a very gruesome halt...

 

An imposing creature emerged from the shadows as Ed stopped to admire the bus parked before him. He had been called to help Jeremy with an assignment. However, this assignment involved the Liberal Democrat battle bus - which was never a good sign! It would mean death-defying acts of kindness and bravery, struggles through adversity, and looking past his natural animosities. Coalitions were never Ed's thing, but today, he didn't have a choice.

 

“Josh, I'm collecting the device now” informed the creature behind the safety of his black hood. Gripped in his palms laid a button he'd used to get here. And so gripped in the palms of his hands laid an untraceable escape route. It was the perfect crime.

 

“Oh, so do you have a dealer or something?” Josh replied, his singular brain cell having a hard time coping with the creature's every move. The man stopped dead in his tracks, dumbfounded at the sentiment.

 

“What kind of fucking dealer would have a computer which could cause a very quick collapse of society, eh? Fuck off, Josh. This is much more serious than crystal meth”

 

“Excuse me?” he scoffed.

 

“Oh, and track down Mhairi Black for me - I need her”

 

“So we're just going to pass over that, then? Eh?”. Yes. Yes, we were. And as he hung up the phone, the hooded figure tip-toed onto the vehicle, careful not to stir suspicion.

 

“What a lovely conversation they're having,” he thought to himself, advancing cautiously down the aisle, “It would be a right shame if somebody got....injured”. The figure crouched as he lit a match, setting fire to a paper lotus flower concealing 30mg of PCP. Seamlessly, he propped it up in a small metal tray and slid it into the open ventilation system. And as he shut and booted it up, he watched on in delight as the comrades began sniffing and choking and convulsing in their chairs.

 

“Oh my God” Jeremy wheezed as the creature marched down the aisle towards him, “What's going on?!”. But the man just grinned as Corbyn's eyes rolled to the back of his head, his limbs as lifeless as a rock. And without consequence, he took back what was rightfully his: the bullet that America stole.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

David Cameron sat blissfully unaware of Downing Street proceedings in the amenity of his armchair. Peacefully, he resided in the comfort of his Cotswold cottage and the warmth of his fiance, Cleggy. And as Cleggers lay soundly asleep in his arms, David zealously knitted away at a jumper designed to keep him warm on the cold nights David wasn't there. They were quintessentially gay with their love and affection.

 

The phone's screams coveted the comforting silence, rousing Nick from his afternoon rest. And though content with being cradled in his lover's arms, Clegg found himself torn between them and answering the impetuous child of a landline and getting David to do it. But David intervened.

 

“There's no need to trouble yourself, Nick. I have this covered” he announced to the crowd residing in his own deluded mind.

 

“But please, David. It would inconvenience me the least”

 

“Settle down, Cleggy” David proclaimed, resting the knitting needles on the coffee table and shifting his lover back onto the armchair, “Daddy will sort this out”. Nick obeyed as David made his way over to the door, placing the phone to his ear and a hand on his hip.

 

“Hello? David speaking”

 

“David! It's Charlotte! I have information you ought to know regarding Larry”. Charlotte manages the felines. Or, more specifically, the camera's hooked onto their collars. Since the cats were accustomed to investigate suspicious behaviours, before David left Downing Street, he decided he'd use them as CCTV cameras. In all honesty, it _was_ partly so he could get revenge on his former colleagues through incriminating evidence, but that's not the point! The point was that, after Nicola got kidnapped, David couldn't trust anyone – and he certainly didn't want his unsuspecting successor to have to be caught off-guard by those vindictive criminals!

 

David shuffled uncomfortably in his pride. He'd left his prized possession in the hands of monsters. God knows what they've done to him.

 

“Well then, speak up, Charlotte. Is my Larry in good health?”

 

“We picked something up from his collar this morning. Theresa's been kidnapped by Rudd and Farron and the Americans have infiltrated Downing Street. David, what do we do?”. David stopped for a minute, and then the nostalgia came racing through. It was happening again. But this time, the consequences were on a much larger scale than he had hoped.

 

“Charlotte, book yourself a holiday. I'll take it from here”

 

“Are you sure?” she asked, surprised, “Will you still be paying me?”

 

“Of course, my dear!” he chuckled, “Now go! Get away from this all! I'll have this sorted in no time”

 

“Very well. I'll send you the evidence. Have fun!”

 

“I will do”. David turned to Cleggy, a surreptitious grin lining his physique. Nick just nodded back in acknowledgement.

 

“Nick,” said David, “I think it's time we get the crew back together”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Kezia Dugdale stormed around the corner as she left her office - and she couldn't quite process the idiocy she'd just seen.

 

For the past month, everyday 'the new kid' had been antagonising her through the means of obstructive body language and insulting facial expressions. She could never quite tell what he meant or what he wanted. Though he acted like a child, his behaviour was almost threatening her. So Kezia emailed him, inquiring about his state of affairs. And instead of receiving a well thought through yet passive-aggressive response, all she got was an illiterate jumble of words and phrases that made no sense. Surely, if you were going to hate someone that ardently and that persistently, you wouldn't undermine your own credibility with your poor grasp of the English language! And for a man who was very close to obtaining power of his own, it would be very dangerous for him to be lacking in vital communication skills. It was the difference between wiping out crime and wiping out Crimea. And this fool's name was Josh.

 

Kezia climbed the stairs to the First Minister's office where she bumped into Nicola's new aide, Amber. Kezia had always admired Amber's sensibility and dedication to Nicola from day one. And now, she finally had the opportunity to talk.

 

“Nice fringe,” Kezia remarked, greeting her with a warm smile.

 

“Thanks” she blushed, temporarily diverting her gaze to the wall.

 

“Do you know if Nicola's in today?” Kezia inquired, twirling around to face her as she continued up the stairs.

 

“Yeah, I think so. I'm getting her coffee just now, actually”

 

“Aye? Well good on you, hen. Have a nice day!”

 

“I will!”. And the both of them scurried away to mind their own business.

 

Mhairi Black exited Nicola's office with a spring in her step. Kezia couldn't quite work out what had made her face light up to such a degree. What could Nicola have possibly said to get Mhairi Black so piped up? But none of that mattered now...

 

A figure in a long black coat, identity concealed with a hood and a mask, stood soundly at the end of the corridor. In his hand there laid a pistol. In his eyes there laid a coursing madness encased in the shell of a psychopath. A malice of a man, he seemed.

 

“Mhairi” the creature echoed, demanding her attention. The woman turned to face this callous being, staring judgingly in his eyes.

 

“Marshall?”. Bang. And there she went. Knocked to the ground, blood spilling like a river. His mouth twisted behind his mask. It was a grave sight. And then Kezia ran.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. And Here I Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Leanne learn of Y/F/N's death.

Leanne pounded her fist against the table.

 

“Hand me the case file on Y/F/N” she boomed, rousing alarm in a shocked receptionist, “NOW”. Immediately, she complied, opening up a file on her computer and frantically typing away.

 

“Let me see here...” she muttered, shellshocked, her fear of this almighty woman causing her to break all protocols as if she was being mugged, “Miss, this case file is confidential. If you want the information, you'll need a referral from our most senior officer”

 

“Bring. Him. _TO_ _ME_ ”. Leanne twitched as she twisted her corrupted expression. The receptionist nodded violently in response.

 

“S-Sure”. She probably wasn't the best receptionist in the world if she crumbled under pressure invoked by a Welsh woman. She worked at GCHQ, for heaven's sake! What kind of awful day was she having?!

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jamie Ross staggered down the Edinburgh cobbles; he was doing the walk of shame again. After last night's shit show, it was no wonder why his face was heavily weighed down with what was most likely a profound sense of remorse. Mhairi had dressed him up as a horse and made him sing All Star to a highly amused assortment of MPs, MSPs and party activists alike. It was his atonement for trying to skip SNP karaoke, he guessed.

 

His head spun like a hurricane, throbbing and whining with every sent signal. And soon enough, Jamie found himself propped up against a wall in an alleyway, shirt stained with vomit and tears.

 

“Hey mate,” a notably English character said from out of the silence, “do you need some help?”

 

“Naw, mate” Jamie choked, trying to use a peculiar arrangement of hand gestures to usher the poor fellow away, “I'm fine”

 

“Are you sure? Do you need a sit-down?”. By this time, the man was seriously beginning to get on Jamie's nerves. But he simmered down eventually given that okay was what he was probably not in this situation.

 

“I think I'll be fine, pal. But thanks for the offer”

 

“My pleasure. The name's Josh, by the way. Mhairi asked me to check up on you”. And those were the words that broke Jamie's young heart. And as he remembered the humiliation encountered the previous evening, the hungover journalist pegged it down the alleyways of Edinburgh, desperate not to be abused again. Josh just stood there and laughed, knowing any second he'd hear a van's brakes screech and the screams of a little boy as Jamie gets hauled away by his fellow gang members.

 

“Come on, Jamie” he muttered to himself, a sadistic grin enveloping his face, “It's not like you have a choice in the matter”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The three figures sauntered the lifeless halls like ghosts in a museum. The silence echoed, ricocheting off of every dull wall and only amplified by the hollowed out ceiling, meticulously lined with ancient symbols and patterns; This laboratory was haunting yet truly exquisite.

 

“It was here, where the girl died” the senior official frowned, pointing his wizened fingertips to the blood-stained concrete.

 

“How?” Peter inquired, his eyes brimming with tears.

 

“A young man who we are yet to identify experimented on her on behalf of an Edinburgh-based organisation. When we brought the three connected with the case in, the man in question went on a killing spree. A woman named Nicola, who was with the victim at the time, barricaded them in here but the man used the vents to break into this very room and subsequently shot his victim dead before escaping. How? We don't know. There were no CCTV cameras operating at the time of the incident”.

 

“N-Nicola?” he sobbed, realising what was going on.

 

“Sturgeon. Your wife. She was staying at a friend's house due to work-related endeavours. Y/F/N was in their household”

 

“Peter,” Leanne interjected, “When Nicola found Y/N, it was only natural that feelings for her would rise back up to the surface. She watched her die for heaven's sake!”

 

“She's still _my_ wife”. It was now clear that in order to avoid witnessing a wrath the world has never seen, Leanne would have to change the subject – and fast.

 

“Sir, do you know how we can get onto the other side of reality? You know, the part that isn't imploding?”

 

“Leave it to me” he smiled, “plans are what we do best”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Serenity. Serenity was all they could feel. It was a strange feeling given that the couple were stood in the middle of IKEA, but it sure as hell was impressive to spectate. There were no quarrels or disputes, no side-eyes or gurns, just tranquillity within the baby aisles - which was certainly not something you'd expect at this time of day.

 

A bump had already begun to rise on Maggie's abdomen. It was a sign of life, a sign of hope, a sign of the things to come. And tenderly, Nicola caressed it from behind, holding Margaret dearly as she nuzzled her chin into her shoulder.

 

In front of them stood a cot wrapped in fresh linens, blankets and teddy bears. And beside that spun a metallic angel in a music box. Every note chimed so delicately and so softly that even Nicola had begun to well up. And it was to the tune of 'Silent Night'.

 

 

 

_Silent Night,_

 

 

 

_Holy Night,_

 

 

 

“I saw Marshall today” Nicola sniffed, directing her southernly gaze to Maggie's cheek as her fear began to surface.

 

“Why? Where?” she whispered back, trying but failing to conceal her notable rage. If she was going to become a mother, she would need to mature a bit more.

 

 

 

_All Is Calm,_

 

 

 

_All Is Bright,_

 

 

 

“He shot Mhairi”. Nicola's voice broke as she recalled the palpable terror; Maggie adjusted her stance so she was now supporting herself up against the cot. Neither of them could quite believe it.

 

 

 

_'Round Yon Virgin Mother and Child,_

 

 

 

_Holy Infant So Tender And Mild,_

 

 

 

 

“Is she dead?” Maggie exclaimed, overcome with sorrow for the loss of her friend.

 

“No,” she sniffed, “he's doing the hijacking shit here, Maggie. God knows what that means for our daughter!”

 

 

 

_Sleep In Heavenly Peace,_

 

 

 

Maggie clutched her belly as her stomach fell. He was up to something far beyond sinister. Because he _was_ going to find her. And he _was_ going to get his side of the bargain. And by the cruel nature of this world, Maggie guessed that this wouldn't be the first time she'll be hearing this carol as her stomach drops. And that would be the end of that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_**Sleep In Heavenly Peace.** _

 


	5. Unafraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marshall and Josh try to find leads to the Prime Minister's whereabouts.

The imposing creature sauntered through the shadows of the halls with a stale look in his eyes. After years of living on the run, Marshall had finally become bored. His sullen mood caused his wrinkled face to droop as he sucked attentively at his cigarette. Whatever he was about to do would blow his cover for good. There would certainly be no going back for him now. But to Marshall, that prospect was the only thing which could lighten his mood. The knowledge that he could make another lasting impact on Sturgeon's life.

 

A masochist at heart but a sadist on the outside, Marshall often found himself heavily conflicted between his dual nature. With such a large dichotomy between his two personalities, it was no wonder why he'd been driven to commit the things he did. Like using a prominent Scottish MP as a puppet whilst showing up to gas Corbyn in person, for example. Whilst he desired the warmth of blood oozing through his fingertips, Marshall also wished to remain in the anonymity of the shadows. And it was most definitely an ego thing.

 

Marshall slammed his giant fists against the table, causing the polished surface to crack.

 

“Where the fUCK is the prime minister?” he growled at himself, “If the shitting Americans didn't take her, then who did?”. His infernal glare made its way across to Jamie Ross who was tied up so tightly to a wooden chair that the legs seemed like they were going to snap off at any given moment.

 

Ardently, Jamie Ross shook his head.

 

“Come on, Ross. You're a journalist for Christ's sake. You should know...”. Tears streamed down Ross' pale expression; he screamed and yelled through the gag like his life depended on it and yet the truth was never heard. Or it wasn't up to Marshall's standards, at least.

 

Conveniently, Josh strolled into the room in the nick of time to stop Marshall from beating poor Jamie's head in with a lead pipe. He explained to Marshall that the Edinburgh Book Festival was coming up and the First Minister was inevitably going to be present. And if Nicola is going to be there, Maggie was going to be there too. And where Maggie is, Theresa and Philip wouldn't be far behind. At least, that'd be the case if they were in the same reality...

 

“Marshall, Maggie is still mentally linked to that silly world we put her and her little family in! If we can do something to Maggie that causes her to subconsciously merge the two realities together, then Theresa would be alive again and effectively come to us. She's still out for revenge, you know!”

 

“Josh, how the shit do you know this?” inquired he, slightly aroused by his potential links to his ex. Josh ran an awkward hand through his hair.

 

“I used to work with Ruth Davidson...”

 

“You're joking...”

 

“And I know that you spiked the serum in that gun”.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Charlotte spun through the pop-up aisles like she was a princess on a ballroom floor. Effortlessly, she took books from upon various shelves and slid them into her basket. Oh, what a life she lead living on a £32k salary.

 

The Edinburgh Book Festival was always a time of great joy for bookworms such as herself. From the recommendations to the talks and the workshops to just flowing through the streets with her hair in the wind. These were truly magical times she was living in.

 

Before long though, Charlotte's footwork has become significantly less pedantic, causing her to trip and land in the arms of a seemingly amiable gentleman. Red-faced and flustered, she bounced back to her feet to incessantly apologise for the inconvenience caused. However, she was met with great compassion by the fellow, who offered to meet her for dinner before she headed back down south. Charlotte, who was immensely flattered by his kind gesture, agreed wholeheartedly, assuring the man of her attendance. Oh, how foolish a mistake that would be. Especially when the man in question was Josh.

 

* * *

 

 

 

3 months. 3 months until Maggie brings new life into this world - and Nicola was over the moon.

 

The couple sat alone backstage in their dressing room. Nicola was there on her hands and knees, passionately trailing kisses over her beloved's bump and whispering sweet sentiments into her child's ear. She just couldn't wait to become an actual mother. Even the thought of it caused tears to prickle at her eyes.

 

Nicola looked up at her girlfriend and smiled.

 

“I'm not afraid of showing you anymore” she sniffed, rising to the feet and helping Maggie do the same. Longingly, Nicola held Maggie and her baby close in her arms, reminiscing about times gone past.

 

“I love you so much you wouldn't even begin to believe”. Maggie grinned and pulled Nicola in for a kiss.

 

“I love you too, sweetie”

 

“And I'm glad we disposed of that mummy kink” smirked Nicola.

 

“So am I”

 

“Nicola!” exclaimed Amber from behind the door, “You're up in 2 minutes!”

 

“Thank you!” she yelled back. Instinctively, Nicola helped a heavily pregnant Maggie down onto the sofa and switched on the TV which had the Book Festival's Livestream on standby. She reached for a thick, tartan blanket and draped it over her beloved and then pulled up a platter of Tunnocks Tea Cakes and shortbread.

 

“Enjoy, sweetheart” muttered Nicola as she kissed Maggie on the lips.

 

“You too, honey”

 

“Och, aye I will!”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Marshall pulled Josh through the rift between the two realities and lead them into the hall. Inside laid a glorious scene – the set-up for one of Sturgeon's book shows. Marshall was thrilled to pieces knowing that he'd finally be able to stare wee Krankie straight in the eyes once more; Belittling his worst enemy would be like Christmas come early.

 

“Mars,” began Josh, “I think I've actually got another lead”. Marshall stopped in his tracks and ushered him against a wall.

 

“What _other_ lead?” he snapped, his indignant tone resonating through Josh's body.

 

“I've met someone - a receptionist from Downing Street – who might know where the Prime Minister is located”

 

“Really? Good. You _know_ I need to speak to Theresa and now. So you better get your fucking skates on, boy. Because you know what happens when I'm angry”. Eager to prove his point, Marshall snatched a pencil from Josh's front pocket. Without hesitation, he pushed his thumbs up against the middle and snapped it in two, letting the wood chips fall to the ground.

 

“This'll be you, bitch”. Josh jogged on, desperate to conceal himself in the crowd. And the people surrounded him like a colony of ants flooding a river. They circled him, immobilised him, scowled at him and screamed. Dizzy and overwhelmed, Josh fell into a chair and sat there, aimlessly staring off into the distance. Well, that was until he saw Amber in the corner of his eyes. Yes, he'd found his university crush at last. It's a small world, eh?

 


	6. Unashamed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it all gets a bit existential.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am back from hiatus and ready to finish the fic! Apologies for the length of the chapter, but I figured that it was better than nothing and a good starting point for easing myself back into intensive writing. Enjoy!

The weary goddess sat humbled in the midst of the rain. It pattered, tauntingly against the glass like the echoes of a thousand newfound lives, buzzing with excitement. The wind stirred the littered leaves on the streets below, rustling against the cries of drunken souls rattling against their confines. And like tissues in a breeze, they caught on the Earth's sigh and chanted their regrets through this woman's troubled house, ricocheting off the jagged edges of her mind.

Glistening and prickling at her sagging eyelids was the refraction of her wedding ring, a locket of sorrow from times gone past. It brought her back to the blur of lights and wails of ambulances, the night she watched Leanne die. Over and over, like a jammed cassette looping on and on forever in her nightmares. But it wasn't Leanne's mortality which had caused her stomach to drop. Peter. Nicola could've saved him. But she was too busy saving herself.

"Nicola..." he wheezed as he laid serene on the gurney, "Nicola, I love you".

"Please, Peter, please don't go.." she'd plead every time, "please, I need you". His final breath came soon after; the squeal of the heart monitor still rung in her ears.

A trickle of agony etched channels down her cheeks, trenches for her turmoil. This life somehow felt like a betrayal to the breath of the man she loved, and the twiddling of this pen aimed to solve it.

But for just how long can she keep her mask from slipping?  
  


* * *

 

 

David and Nick scoured the Downing Street halls with two very large, very bright flashlights in hand. They were like searchlights helping the men on the ground yet scaring off anyone or anything which happened to be in their path, like flies or rodents. But not Larry. Larry's not afraid of anyone.

"Oh come here my precious baby," David purred as he swooped the feline into his loving arms, "Look, Nick, isn't he adorable?!". Clegg rolled his eyes as David nuzzled the poor cat, placing him gently down onto the carpet as not to startle him any more than he already was.

"Now then," Nick began as he tentatively crouched down beside Larry, imitating David, "Where did Theresa go?"

 

* * *

 

  
Huddled between rouge walls by dim candlelight, the pair sat, blending in with the crowd, seemingly as destined for each other as the last couple. The table was set for two with glistening crockery and pristine china plates laid out before them in all their splendour atop a polished oak veneer. The atmosphere was lively and yet thematically hushed. Not an ill-word could be heard. Not a stutter. Not a mumble. Only superimposed adoration for the potential mate sat opposite. How incredibly human it all was.

But Marshall wasn't human. He had been corrupted to the point of oblivion. Even a biologist with hawk-eyes and an unwavering attention to detail would never manage to construct a machine smart enough to untangle the mess that Mars so willingly made for himself. And so he just sat there, calm and desolate, burying the pain of his past mistakes deep inside him.

Charlotte was infatuated. No, not the kind of infatuation that leads you to kill your political rivals. Though, in the context of this story, you may be forgiven for thinking that. No, Charlotte had found her prince: Josh. Josh, her northern knight in shining armour. Josh, her spark of joy in a monotonous world. Josh, her impossible fairytale ending. Josh. And only Josh.

Maybe it was the way her muscles sprung to life when she saw him or the spark in her dynamic stare which caused him to restrain and rethink his motives. But no, that's not how Josh works. That's never how Josh works. And so he exiled his emotions from his mind.

"So, what do you do for a living?" Charlotte giggled, tucking a silky strand of her hazelnut hair behind her little ears.

"I'm...an assistant to one of the MSPs up at Holyrood" he replied, strikingly inexperienced when it came to communication between the sexes.

"Ooh," she sung, perking up at the suggestion, "what inspired you to get involved in politics?". Josh chuckled under his breath, diverting his stare to hide his rosy cheeks.

"It was actually my uni crush".

And she stood watching, submerged in her blanket of rain, numb to touch and looking inwards, drunk on the kaleidoscope haze of condensation. A flag of crimson fluttered strikingly in the midnight. Amber knew of the horrors which were to unfold. Amber knew. And Amber was going to have to stop it.

 

* * *

 

 

Maggie rolled over onto Nicola's cold, empty side. She whined through gritted teeth.  
  
"Don't you worry sweetheart, I'm coming" spoke Nicola through the blinding darkness. Taking a sigh, she collapsed onto the mattress and curled into the fetal position, allowing Maggie to run a comforting hand through her mane.

"I'm sure he'll give up eventually" Maggie hummed as her partner snuggled tighter into her chest.

"We cannae be sure, though, sweetheart. And besides, you and our wee lass our all I have left". Maggie wrapped herself around her despondent partner who was now clinging to her chest.

"Honey, you're all we ever need and frankly all I ever want. Don't let that psycho take you away from us". Nicola grinned, nabbing a quick kiss as she adjusted herself to be the dominant cuddler.

"Never again, my beautiful wee girl. Never again".


	7. Unrestrained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cracks begin to widen.

Tip. Tap. I'm a fucking cat. And this rain doesn't want to stop. My fur feels like carpet plastered against my skin. I'm wanting to run; I'm trying to sprint. But a clamp wraps itself around me and hauls me into the air. If only Freya were here to save me. But no, the humans have restrained me again. I let out a ceremonious hiss. Why must they always come at the unholy hours of the morning?

 

"Awh Palmerston," the tall one sings, "it's so lovely to see you again. Tell me, have you seen anything suspicious around here lately?".

 

"No" I yawn, but that's not what they heard because I'm a fucking cat.

 

"What about Larry?" inquires the rather larger one, "Have been good to my precious boi?". I glare at this imbecile, shooting metaphorical daggers through his pupils. Because sure, the Secret Service has lost it completely. And sure, I've seen Larry out hunting for mice like he was fucking hired to do; I let him be accordingly. But I'm not about to tolerate 2 middle-aged tory fuckwits dictate my answers in some pansy-ass voice. I am Palmerston and I am fucking swol.

 

"What's that, David? Is our lovely boi is safe and sound in Auntie Theresa's house like he should be? Free from all pain and suffering?"

 

"I think Palmerston's trying to tell us to go and save our precious kitty from further harm by reassembling the progressive alliance"

 

"But daddy," imitated Nick, his face held unnervingly closer to my battle coat of charcoal, "what if the bad men get you?"

 

"Oh, there's no need to worry my babykins," David hums before laying a sloppy kiss upon my brow, "Daddy has his faith in Timothy Farron".

 

Somebody put me down. Please.

 

* * *

 

 

 

A golden ray of sunlight beamed down through the pane of glass to ruffle Amber's fringe. She sat curled up, sound asleep in the corner of Nicola's office which was now littered with cushions and paperwork alike. Her boss sat opposite the Sun's victim, typing away diligently, responding to a rather angry email from a Labour colleague.

 

The assistant once sifted through the document now grasped tightly in her fist, these very words filing through her conscience and disrupting what she regarded as free will and normality. Amber knew that this was far from normality: knowing your own fate. But do they know theirs?

 

"Amber," the First Minister hummed sweetly, patting her nails against the oak veneer, "have you heard anything from Maggie yet?". The sleeping beauty awoke with a snore, her hair up in knots from a night spent rifling through drawers and eventually snoozing on her specially assigned chair.

 

"N-no," she stuttered, dropping the crumpled document into the sea of receipts. Nicola sighed, her warm breath laced with anxiety. She had already tried all points of contact: social media, texting, the home phone. But it was no use. And there was a week until she'd be able to finally come home and see her. Or, God forbid, find her. Why was Maggie not answering?

 

There was a pat at the door. A tall, lanky shadow prised it ajar and rested a curious eye on the crack. Nicola wore a quizzical expression.

 

"Soup?" the figure inquired, an air of questionable enthusiasm in his tone. The two women immediately lit up and began to rush towards the door.  
Unfortunately, Amber stumbled and fell from grace as her frenzied game of hopscotch devolved into amateur skating with a hint of inevitable injury. Thump.

 

The soup boy laid down his tray of goodness and turned to the woman who was now drowning in hysteria and court documents alike. He did a sort of balletic hop over to Amber with an arm outstretched, bowing ironically at both her and the situation.

 

"I believe you are in need of some assistance, madam?". Amber, giggled sheepishly back.

 

"I believe I am" replied she, accepting his hand which held hers like a rope, gently pulling her frame upright. The two of them adjusted their hair and posture in response to this, with the occasional unintended eye contact flustering them both. Nicola sighed another sigh.

 

"Am I witnessing foreplay?"

 

"N-No" stammered Amber.

 

"Absolutely not," the soup boy said in unison to this.

 

"I..."

 

"We were just-"

 

"Flirting!" cried Nicola, "And good on you Amber for winning in the game of love. Unfortunately, this man sells soup, not buttsex"

 

"When did anyone bring anal into this?" questioned the soup man as he lifted his liberty blue snapback (which evoked all the sexual prowess of an ape) from off his skull, allowing waves of blonde to flow and shimmer in the Sun's radiance. Nicola looked completely done.

 

"Please, can we have some soup?" Amber requested, livening up to both the delectable fragrance and potential love interest. Her boss's face violently cocked, almost as if it was yelling, "WHI' TAE FOOK ARE YE DAEIN?".

 

"S-Sure" the equally infatuated prince charming replied, ladle already in hand. Steadily, he poured her breakfast into a cardboard cup and gently passed it over, careful not to stain any of Nicola's draft manifestos spread across the carpet.

 

"And you, First Minister?". The humble prince's expression was met with one of a middle-aged woman about to go apeshit.

 

"I guess I'll go then..." he conceded, opting to preserve his status as alive and breathing. Besides, he now had a reason to.

 

"I'll see you around...um.."

 

"Amber. It's Amber"

 

"I'll see you around then, Amber". And with that, the prince lifted his tray, tip-toeing out of the room and gently pressing the door back into place behind him. And Nicola was furious.

 

* * *

 

 

So where is Maggie? Well, that's a good fucking question, my friend. She's running a finger down a cracked door frame in a hotel lobby, examining a shatter in the railings of a bridge. She's wavering hopelessly between the light and dark, almost as if she's peering down a ridge. She's discovering an austere flip-side to her dimension, one of despondency and doom. She's being held in the arms of her father, who once knew her by a different name, who once knew her only as you.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello this is molly from Bad Poetry Today™ how may i assist you


	8. Letting My Past Melt Like Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andy gathers around a team of experts and Maggie gives birth.

"Oh Philip," Theresa sighed, "we haven't been to a Greggs together since we were young and free!". It was true: the couple had never felt the need after winning the game of life. The fact that they were even strutting the high street was a miracle! The Mays: they truly were the living, breathing anomalies of their age.

 

The greyscale of a human being bashfully chuckled in under his breath, a flush of red shading his cheekbones. A hand hovered over his wife's own, gently brushing against it as another bought of laughter bubbled up from this throat.

 

"Oh darling," Philip choked, "I wouldn't call 40 young and free!". With a skip in their stride, the duo flooded through the open door into the humble bakery. Theresa's eyes met the lady at the counter.

 

"8 sausage rolls, 4 pasties and..uh...another 6 cream eclairs please"

 

"To have in or take away?". Theresa's eyes narrowed and then widened to accommodate a smile.

 

"Between the two of us? If only...."

 

"The press would accuse you of robbing the store!" Philip interjected.

 

"No, Philip. I would go down in history as a legend."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The couple turned a corner and arrived at the scene: a battle bus parked in a gloomy cul-de-sac littered with plastic bags and muddied newspapers. A battle bus painted over and disguised as a coach...

 

Greggs in hand they clambered aboard, pleasantly greeted with a rush of air as cosy as a blanket, lined with a graceful touch of chatter. Clumsily the duo made their way down the aisle and into the vacant seats clustered around the table. At the helm presided Andy Burnham and, with his eyes glittering in the artificial beams from the above, spoke fervently about a need for change. It was typical really...

 

"Now that lunch has arrived," he beamed, "it's probably best I explain why I have gathered such a diverse lot of you together today". Nonchalantly, he clasped his hands into a fist, resting them on top of his skinny jeans, an obvious equanimity reverberating across the room through his voice almost like a contagion, a wash of stillness. Despite his control, Andy sighed, a look of frustration ravaging his conscience.

 

"There's a moment in time which needs to be changed". His captivated audience sat back in their seats, clenching tightly onto their pastries, diverting their gazes away from the delectable eclairs and onto the absurdity of Andy's conclusion. Ed Balls scoffed through his own-brand pork pies.

 

"Wat's impawwible" he spluttered to a light wack on the shoulder from Yvette; Balls instinctively covered his mouth.

 

"I know it sounds absurd but..."

 

"But what?" inquired Tim, his hand now resting gently on Corbyn's own, a look of affection and concern sweeping the faces of the many (not the few). Andy sat up, readying his response, though his countenance was alike to that of a man struggling to swallow a pill.

 

"Our last meeting was...regrettably disrupted by an individual - no - a criminal who goes by the name of Mars. During that meeting-"

 

"He tried to kill us"

 

"We know that part, Yvette" Andy snapped back, "It's not like Murdoch let us forget". David chuckled maliciously at the sentiment before realising that this was neither the time nor the place.

 

"David and Nick had a look at CCTV patrolling Downing Street as well as other parliamentary buildings on the night Theresa had to be....smuggled out of her own home". There was a brief pause as Rudd and Farron recollected the insanity.

 

"Wait, what do you mean by patrolling?" Theresa interrupted.

 

"The cats. The CCTV was and still is connected to cameras on their collars"

 

"Why?" asked Miliband, "Surely even its visibility would be obscured by the fur. It's inefficient and uneconomica-"

 

"-don't doubt my Larry's abilities, Miliband. Ever." scowled Cameron.

 

"C-can we please get back on track?"

 

"Yes. We have to." continued Burnham, "Suspicion arose in -not the manner of their conduct - though it is rather alarming that the American government feel they have the authority to raid our own, but in how they left. You see it's not like they vanished but more like they were...erased".

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Look at this". Burnham grabbed a lone remote from the back of a drawer and thrust it towards the portable television. On the display played a scene donned in black and white of an agent walking forward the one minute and then his motions reversing, and then his body dissolving limb by limb the next, himself ostensibly oblivious. Disappearing around him were many of his colleagues, many of whom didn't bat an eyelid to these peculiar happenings. Andy turned back to face the group.

 

"It's like the universe is back peddling. Something's happened that's upset the balance. That bullet, that thing. Whatever Mars now has is more than likely the source of all havoc. We need to find him. We need to put an end to this. We need to stop the universe from erasing us all".

 

"How do you know that will happen?" questioned Cleggy.

 

"Haven't you noticed any sudden changes? Anything you've done or others have done that's different or completely out of character and without reason? It's already begun, Clegg. Everything is glitching. We're actively being rewritten".

 

* * *

 

 

Breathe in...

...Breathe out...

 

Breathe in...

...Breathe out...

 

"You're doing amazing, sweetie. Just one more push!".

 

Breathe in...

...Breathe ow-wAHHHut.

 

"I'm so proud of you, princess" sighed Peter, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, his eyes glistening with pride, "I cannae believe I'm a grandad now". Maggie beamed through her obvious exhaustion, a bead of saltwater racing down her forehead.

 

"There, there Murrell," added Leanne with a sly pat on the knee, "You're only as old as your heart is". A gentle evening breeze poked its ears through an open window, entwined with an essence of mulled wine and carol singers - a true Yankee candle classic. It stretched its legs past the pane and into the corridor, circling a naked pine tree and stumbling across the fairy-lighten tightrope. Gracefully, the midnight flurry puffed Christmas joy through loose fabrics and hair fibres, ruffling feathers of abandoned patients and documents grasped loosely in the hands of Amber, ambushing her trenchcoat and masking the wings of soot which decorated irises of chestnut with a blanket of tears. The magic only faltered upon an unnecessarily explosive entrance by yours truly, a demoralised senior doctor. With a corrupted purpose in his stride, he advanced towards the scene of the crime and yanked open the curtain.

 

"Sorry I'm late," the troubled man began, "complications in ward 3, you see. Now, who have we here?". The doctor crouched down beside the nurse who had finished wrapping the infant up in a blanket and playfully tickled her chest. A ray of light enveloped his storm of a mind. Affectionately, he cradled the newborn and began towards the mother as the wind began to sing.

 

_Silent night..._

 

"You have a very good set of genes, don't you lovely," the strange man remarked, leaning in for a soft nuzzle, "I'm Dr Wright, by the way". Skillfully, he extended his arm forward for a polite but vigorous handshake, holding the child closer and closer to his chest.

 

_Holy night..._

 

"I'm going to have to nip off and do a few examinations - if that's okay with the mother, of course!"

 

_All is calm..._

 

"Perfectly" Mags replied, hot air beating from out her chest, "as long as she's happy and well, I'm happy and well". Fatigued, the weight of the redhead's eyelids overcame her will to hold a conversation.

 

_All is bright..._

 

"I'm happy and well" she repeated in a hushed tone, almost like it was a lie she needed to believe.

 

_'Round yon virgin mother and child..._

 

"Very well," nodded the man with the furrowed brow and so, throwing his lab coat to the wind, he headed off briskly down the corner, infant in hand.

 

 

_Holy infant so tender and mild..._

 

 

Leanne and Peter's gazes met as they exchanged warm smiles. For the first time in forever, they weren't at war. For the first time in forever, they were united by a cause. A single, beautiful cause. A single beautiful daughter. A princess, a mother, a sleeping angel with eyes bright enough to light up the night sky. Eyes filled with vivacious embers of leafy green passed down to a bundle of joy whose rings of fire resembled that of amber. Some would call it a Christmas miracle.

"Well done, honey" muttered Leanne, running a soft hand through ruffled mane.

 

 

_Sleep in heavenly peace..._

 

 

"Well done indeed, Miss May" added another man who stood expectantly at the end of the bed, "Sorry I'm late. Complications in ward 3. I'm Dr Wright, by the way, senior consultant". Amiably, he took a hand from his pockets and shook Peter's own, eyes still darting around the room.

"Now, where's this bundle of joy at, eh?"

 

 

 

**_Sleep in heavenly peace._ **


	9. Slipping Through The Cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The deed is done. The game is up. Or has it only just begun?

For the most part, the world creates its own chaos. Winds which once rung with the lullabies of bluebirds implode into dissonant chorus. Trees which once swayed pull their roots from the weeds and march with two feet across concrete towns. Raindrops which once fell like tears, now crash like bombs reigning down from indignant skies. The heavens roared as buildings bent. And the people, they hid inside, basking in the ignorance of baby blue light radiating from the screens which hide them. So here we are, all alone. Ravaged by our mistakes. Broken by the choices our hearts make. Weeping faith away on either side of the cracked wall.

 

Around a corner, two figures turned, casually strolling through the city ruins, kicking rubble to the curb.

 

"So did you see it? The other side, I mean" questioned the senior official, the curiosity in his gaze bubbling over the stern expression he'd crafted for himself.

 

"Only for a second but by then, Nicola had disappeared"

 

"And did the manner in which she disappeared seem at all...strange? Did the act in which she 'died' seem to have any destabilising effect on the environment?"

 

"I'm not sure. A ring of dust burst upwards from around me although I really didn't question it at the time. I thought that was just part of the bridge collapsing but, now that you mention it, there wasn't any sound"

 

"Nobody seems to question strange happenings these days...Tell me, Leanne, what did this fake doctor look like?"

 

"It's hard to remember, you see. The whole thing was sort of a blur. He had ruffled dirty blonde hair, a stern expression - almost forced - and he looked rather young to me. He had a long lab coat on, power in his step though he was, admittedly, rather lanky". The duo turned a corner into a destitute alley, defined by soggy walls which bled wet paint and reeked of cheap wine and fresh piss. Subsequently, the official's face morphed dramatically into a gurn; Leanne remained unperturbed.

 

Above them, flashes of light stabbed at the adjacent wall, flickering incessantly with a force greater than a God's. Just like a fairground ride, the colours would switch and swish and sting the back of your eyes. With a blue bolder than a summer's sky and a green brighter than the midday sun merging into a red more threatening than the eyes of a bull to a yellow more ominous than a nuclear explosion, the blotches of light shone into the distance. A distance without a voice, without an audience. Nobody but Leanne and her CEO sidekick could see what was going on. And nobody but them could stand in the way to stop it. And so naturally, the two of them backed out of the grim alleyway, and walked on by.

 

Back in the apartment, a door swung open wide, crashing emphatically into the wall and gouging a handle-shaped hole in the plaster. A glaring light once manic like an attraction now bore one sole colour and stood silently in a room brimming with despair. Charlotte cowered in the corner, wrist stuck like a vice in the clammy hands of Josh who himself stood solemnly, captivated by the sight set before him. Mhairi Black was in a zombie-like trance, a mere mind-slave to the Marshall's mission, and he stood his ground with purpose and conviction, cradling the stolen infant in his hands. Mhairi's own were clutching onto a large glass jar which dispelled light in every direction like a beacon, a guide, a cry for help. And the light had come from none other than the child whose Mother had too endured a similar pain.

 

That ball like the Sun found itself moved by the monster into its own transparent cell. Like fire, it crackled and like lightning, it tossed and turned. Those looking on shuddered as mass was suffocated, extinguished with the touch of a lid. All that remained was a cool, condensed globe of silver - and it was enough to put back together the pieces of his plan.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Another day, another long evening in the parliament of Scotland. Nicola had just left her office, a folder in hand, after calling it a day. A day in which she was meant to be finalising plans and signing documents for a second independence referendum. A day in which she instead spent frantically phoning up a database of officials and agents alike in the hopes of tracking down her beloved Maggie.

 

All was quiet in the city which never seemed to sleep. Regrettably, all good things come to an end. And that good thing was peace.

 

Amber knew what she had to do. Every curtain, every door, every light switch had to conceal her. Every camera, every curious eye, every footstep had to hush. Every memory, every document, every intention had to be locked away in a fabric safe, a pocket in a trenchcoat. And then, and only then, could she lacerate the crumbling walls of a faux reality and step onto the other side.

 

A graveyard. She'd come to a graveyard: the only place in a constant state of stability. For death is final. Death is absolute. Mortality is not a state to be reckoned, beckoned, bargained or argued with. But mortality in a dream world plays by its own rules, play its own game, set out so invitingly by its maker.

 

Maggie stood facing her with a stern expression. A twitch from under an eye revealed the true scale of insanity masked deep within. Stealthily, she masked her hands as they curled into fists.

 

Amber approached her with a gentle smile, yet it was weighed down by the enormity of the task ahead of her. An affectionate hand brushed her shoulder, journeying up her face to wipe a tear from the crevice of Maggie's forest green eyes, darkened by a tempest of sorrow and rage.

 

"You know what to do," the good friend muttered, "it's your mind after all". A sneer erupted from the corners of her mind.

 

"God," Maggie began, "I am simply playing God. Why would anyone want to play-"

 

"-because danger. Danger is coming Margaret. And you have to tools to stop it. You stepped back through these cracks, after all. You have free rei-"

 

"-I don't want free reign. I want to be free from all of this. From this mess we've made"

 

"Such a beautiful mess, Margaret. Such a beautiful daydream. Such a beautiful lie"

 

"Lie?"

 

"You may be playing God, Margaret. But that doesn't mean you are. Now run. Run as far as your beating heart allows. And be free". As Maggie departed into the night, two figures made their way into the dull glare of the lamppost and prised open the gates of steel which kept their master from breathing. A piercing creak screamed into the echoes of the night, but no one dared to flick on a light in fear of frightening a widow or holy man. With a surreptitious step, the two crept into the confines, careful to slide a milk crate between the two gates, and hurried along. And that milk crate was far more than a blessing.

 

Amber slid through the opening, alert as to not disturb the thinking of the madman in front, armed with a mind slave. The path which led into the cemetery bit at the ankles of the three of them, wishing them to trip, wishing them to fall. The undertow knew all too well of the horrors which were about to unfurl.

 

Not a star could be seen in the backdrop of night, yet not an engine could be heard or a flashlight could be seen. Only the crackle of background radiation, the muffle of anticipation. And eventually, the trio reached the grave.

 

Mounds of dirt surrounded it from the morning spent grave digging and a muddied casket laid soundly six feet down. Though the night wished only to mask the truth on the face of the gravestone, Amber knew full well that the body that laid beneath was none other than Ruth Davidson's. Marshall was indeed about to resurrect his master.

 

With a click of a finger, the coffin flung open at the creature's command. And at another, Mhairi poured the cold soul into the container beneath. With excitement pulsing through the madman's veins, he hopped down into the hole and held Ruth's torso expectantly. A cough. A wheeze. A flutter of the eyelids later, and the deed was done.

 

Her eyes shone into the distance like laser beams or watch lights staring down, patrolling city after city. Her skin, now rejuvenated, bore colour and adequate coverage to the bones in her face. Her muscles, long unused, spasmed as they woke. A heart which once beat so strong, now working once more. And it yearned for the presence of her daughter.

 

"Where is she" a rough whisper groaned, "Margaret and our child, where is she, Marshall?"

 

"Your child is with my accomplice. And Margaret is most probably with Nicola"

 

"Good.." she sighed, "...you've done well, Marshall. But I have no use for you now"

 

"Ma'am, I promise you, I have pools brimming with potential left". Ruth chuckled a little, gracing him with a malevolent smirk.

 

"I'll be the judge of that". And with the strength of a tow truck, Ruth clamped her hands around the neck of her faithful servant, taking the life of the man who so willingly killed for her. A man who now lays six feet down in a casket made for another, rather unwillingly dead.

 

 


	10. I Carve Out My Own Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The collision course starts now. Welcome, to the beginning of the end.

"This is it, lads," announced Ed Miliband as a sheet was drawn from over the battle bus. He stood tall, hands firmly on his hips with a nostalgic smirk lining his sweet little face, the embers of what once was beaming from the puddles in his eyes.

 

"We're going on a road trip"

 

"rOOOOOAD tRIIIIPPPP" repeated Philip May, who'd taken the time to lather on the thickest (and worst) American white girl impression the world had ever seen; Theresa merely chuckled awkwardly at the sentiment. The crowd of them was evergrowing, with Timothy rushing in with a folder spilling from his hands and Caroline equipped with a handy placard from the latest women's rally.

 

"Sorry we're late," David stammered as he hurried into the garage which was now flooded with artificial light, bouncing from dull wall to wall. Echoes of footsteps lined the backdrop of the icy floor beneath and now, so did some rather distinctive purrs.

 

"Sup bitches" meowed Larry. But of course, no one understood him because Larry's a fucking cat.

 

"We thought we'd bring our darling angel along for the ride". In that instance, the crowd just stopped...and stared bewildered at Clameron. It was as if a meme had entered the facility. The two men stood babbling at the feline, adorned in patterned shirts, khaki shorts and knee-high golf socks finished off with two matching pairs of luminescent crocs. And they were loving it.

 

"We're going to Edinburgh, Dave, not Ibiza" stated Ed. But the couple had no time for criticism today - nah-ah. They were here to get the job done and rock their bods like they were living their last.

 

"Shush, Edward. Everywhere's Ibiza when Larrypoo's here". Affectionately, the grown man rubbed his kitty's stomach once more, causing everyone to choke on their own vomit.

 

"That's enough, David," cooed Tim Farron as he swung coolly from behind the open doors of the bus, "I'll let you bring him but with one exception"

 

"And what would that be, Timothy"

 

"You're cleaning up its shit". And with that, the crew were off, clambering like deranged politicians into the back of their new home (oh wait), eager to once again face the day and take down the evil that threatened them all: Mars.

 

Hungrily, the small crowd gathered around the table at the back equipped with ideas of their own and a thirst for Andy's briefing [insert innuendo here]. Burnham (thankfully) came prepared for their insatiable lust for knowledge, whipping out a powerpoint presentation and flicking between CCTV footage, news reports and Google Maps at the wave of a remote. His audience was captivated, firing away questions regarding logistics and backup plans as if they were semi-automatic nerds. Heck, they too were using a gross quantity of similes! Who would've known grown men and women were so articulate! Eventually, the ardour of the room peaked and calmed the fuck down. And so their fates were sealed, their passions cemented, their target locked. They were to drive to Edinburgh once more, track down Marshall and take back the bullet he stole. But was it the bullet itself they so desired? Or was it the ability to change their fate?

 

A little while into their journey and Larry had already scratched the living daylights out of the inner paintwork, kick Balls' pork pies onto the floor (much to the amusement of Yvette and Caroline) and pissed in Jeremy's soup flask. According to David, at least, it wasn't Larry's intention to do mean things but it was just how he learned to behave after living in Downing Street for all these years. Jeremy wasn't buying it though.

 

"IF YOU DON'T PUT THAT BLOODY THING BACK IN ITS CAGE," screeched a rather protective Farron, "I'LL LOB IT ONTO THE DUAL CARRIAGEWAY WITH MY BARE FUCKING HANDS"

 

"That's not a very Christian thing to do..." muttered Miliband who, in a strange twist of fate, was rather enjoying the suffering of others.

 

"EDWARD, I'LL RIP OUT YOUR OESOPHAGUS AND THROTTLE YOU WITH IT IF YOU CONTINUE WITH YOUR VILE". Ed just laughed, endeavouring to put up his feet on the adjacent chair to further irritate him before shoving the remnants of his bacon sandwich into his mouth and chewing on it rather loudly. David, however, looked disheartened at the unilateral villainisation of his pet child.

 

"At least Nigel's not driving this time, I suppose...".

 

Crack. It sounded from the back of the bus.

 

"I blame Larry"

 

Crack. And it brought with it a light.

 

"I don't think Larry's capable of tearing an entire bus in half, Ed"

 

Crack.

 

"Or tearing a hole in the space-time continuum". The band of them collectively gulped.

 

"I see you're underestimating the power of my cat"

 

"David now is not the t-"

 

Crack. And a puff of choking followed. Three choking individuals to be precise. Two of which they knew, and one of which was armed with a rather imposing briefcase.

 

"Leanne!" cried Caroline as she lept from her seat.

 

"Peter!" cheered Philip as he jumped to his feet. And then silence reigned as all eyes fell on their accomplice.

 

"Sorry I'm late everyone. I'm Gary McRoberts from GCHQ," the suited man began "and we're here help you to save the world".

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Back in Holyrood, and a second team had begun to assemble. Well, the memos had been sent out at least. Patrick Harvie stood solemnly in the middle of the chamber, the echoes and ghosts of the day prior still whirring around the hall, mirroring his head. His prized sustainable waist coast sat tight around his chest, the strength of the buttons complementing the sturdiness of his passion for windmills. Filled with both pride and anxiety, the stunted man clapped his clogs against the polished veneer in an attempt to make him feel alive.

 

In the distance, there erupted a sound. A shriek. A shout. A man. A myth. A monkey...?

 

"WUUUUUULLLLLLLIIIEEEEEEEEEE reeeEEEENNNNNIIIEEEEEEEEE" cried the blonde Godzilla from the gallery. With the will of a hurricane, the grown man clambered fiendishly over the seating and launched himself down into the chamber, landing on a leather office chair and using it to skate across the empty room, leaping once again into the benevolent arms of the alarmed MSP. Then, breaking the nonsensical trend, two figures emerged from the shadows: Kezia and Jenny. Hand in hand, they marched through the entrance knowing full well what Rennie just did.

 

"Ah thought ah tuld ya naw tae dae 'hat shite, pal" Kezia barked with her suit jacket flailing in her step.

 

"YOO CANNAE TAME MEEEE" bellowed the legend himself as Patrick Harvie made the executive decision to drop him.

 

"She does whit she pleases"

 

"So..." intervened Patrick in a desperate attempt to diffuse the tension, "where's Nicola?"

 

"Didn't she get the memo?" Willie asked, unsettled.

 

"I hand delivered the damn memo"

 

"Maybe we should wait" Jenny interjected, "Maybe a meeting overran". But the quartet could shake that ever-growing pit in their stomachs, the ice that ran cold what once ran red. With that same look in their eyes, they glanced around at each other...until one nodded, knowing what to do.

 

"Let's go to her office," uttered Harvie, "maybe she left her agenda".

 

The foursome scrambled down the corridors, the memory of Mhairi's fate branded in their minds. It couldn't be, surely? Why would they want to assassinate her...again? Not even they knew who 'they' was, nor did they want to dream of the possibilities. And as they reached her office door, they remembered the sight which had upped their security and heart rate's alike...

 

Naturally, the door was locked...so they got the manchild to kick it down. It took a while - a painfully long while - before it unhinged itself but eventually, they managed to get through.

 

Most of the room looked pristine. Files were ordered neatly on shelves, documents on desks, cushions on armchairs. And then there was the wardrobe. Pens and phones and jackets laid scattered from what could only be presumed to be some sort of scuffle. And it screamed. The wardrobe screamed. Okay, Nicola screamed - I was just being dramatic. In fact, it wasn't so much a scream, more a muffled and desperate cry for help.

 

"Dinnae tell me I'm gonnae have to kick doon another door"

 

"Don't you worry, Rennie," replied Kezia as she approached the door, reaching for the chair wedged between the doorknobs, "I think you can sit this one out". In the blink of an eye, Nicola's heavily restrained body busted through the opening, landing her a comfy spot face-down on the carpet.

 

"Kinky," purred Jenny, requiting a light slap on the wrist from her partner. Willie crouched to rip off the duct tape as Patrick began to work on loosening the ropes which bound her.

 

"Who did this to you?"

 

"Amber," she spat, signalling at a rather ominous crack in the wall as she crumpled a familiar document in her fist, "and Peter and Leanne are apparently very much alive"

 

"Leanne was dead?" exclaimed Rennie.

 

"She couldn't have been," replied Harvie, "She's the one who handed me the memo"

  
  


* * *

 

 

 

  
Maggie stood atop a valley, arms outstretched, breathing in the morning dew. Wild and free. Following the beats of her heart through the places that she used to go, the places that she used to know. A blanket of trees surrounded her, sheltering her from the world. Out here, Margaret Naomi May was free to lose her mind. Margaret Naomi May could finally be herself. Margaret Naomi May could finally be free. And there wasn't a soul in sight to stop her.

 

Not one.

 

Not even her own.

 

 

 

 

 


	11. For As A Child Of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every piece of the puzzle has begun to fall into place. For the stars only shine of the worthy.

The stars had gone out in the midnight sky as we found ourselves here, wrapped in the arms of our destinies. Both dead and alive, disgruntled and enthused, hopeful and dismayed now perched upon metal clouds, gathered like diplomats around the countertop. The abused and the abusers, the wrecked and the wreckers, the deceived and the deceivers: together, we sat in unison, fingers grasped tightly around the steering wheel. So here we stand, neck deep in an emergency, clutching at our fates for control.

 

The goddess of war stood tall at the helm, shoulders spread, feet flat, hands supporting her torso as she leaned against the desk. Not a drop, not a trickle of frustration could be found on her figure, not a taste of urgency in sight, except for the shadow of a hazelnut strand which painted insanity in her eyes. A darkness, a madness, a desperation untangling itself from the inside.

 

"A few days back," explained Leanne with a force in her tongue, "a child was stolen from the arms of her mother". A pause left the conference gasping, the residual silence buzzing at their ears. With an acrimonious glare, the woman with the lion mane residing at the back met eyes with the speaker and let her inner conflict hang her mouth open wide.

 

"Margaret Naomi May," she uttered with salt in her breath "is missing...again". The hands of time were unforgiving, with history indulging, swaying to the repetitive beat. And so the crowd of them remained, anticipating the chimes in the night. It was the tenth hour, and if they were correct, there would be a mere two more until they stared down the barrels of fate. The hands of time were screaming out their warning. And a cry in the night will always be heard.

 

"Do you think I'll die again?" Peter remarked, his tone a juxtaposition to the room.

 

"I think we all will" sighed Andy.

 

"So what are we supposed to do?"

 

"Fight," stated Leanne, "We're supposed to fight. And that's what we'll do". The room took heart at the suggestion. Well, the eyes of the pacifists did widen a little. Out of fear, mainly. Although Nicola did have a malicious smirk on her face.

 

"And how will we do that?" scathed George Osborne, "We're hardly trained athletes". Leanne strained for a second, and then perked up at the brilliance of her own mind.

 

"We'll split into three. Group A finds that doctor. Group B goes to Mars' lab. Group C stay here". Unfortunately, this unearthed more questions than it solved.

 

"Um...Leanne. With all due respect..." began David.

 

"The fake Dr Wright had a stupid fucking accent, messy blonde hair and looked like an anxious mess"

 

"So Josh then?" chuckled Kezia to the giggles of Willie and Patrick.

 

"Josh?"

 

"Aye. He's some Tory assistant up at Holyrood. 'Been trynae antagonise me for the past few months but he's an illiterate piece of piss"

 

"Is there a picture of him on the government website?"

 

"I mean, there's bound to be"

 

"Show me". And so Kezia whipped out her phone, her stomach burying itself into her abdomen. And there he was: Josh McAlistair, Assistant to....wait.

 

"Why is Ruth's name on this website?". Nicola and Theresa sprang from their respective chairs.

 

"But that's not possible!" Sturgeon cried, an exponential division of panic erupting from the confines of her mind, "Ruth Davidson died!"

 

"That child, my grandchild," Theresa stuttered, "Is Ruth's. Josh has to be-"

 

"-Dr Wright. or doctor wrong in this case"

 

"Then how do we find him?"

 

"Well, I'm sure our team of hacking experts can sort that one out...".

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

And there she stood, hair blowing in the breeze, arms cradled around a child that wasn't hers to keep. At her feet, knelt her faithful friends: Nigel and Boris. Neither had turned their backs when others turned to run. Back in the bedroom, Josh struggled against the ropes which bound him to a chair. Behind his plight stood a figure lurking in the shadows, silent but determined to make things right. And she had cloaked her face in darkness, smothering her soul from the light.

 

Ruth turned her attention from the stars to the traitor, eyes piercing, entertaining every last fragment of his fear. The boy screamed through the gag, tears tugging at every last fold of terrified skin, streaking droplets of sweat and stretching splatters of blood into rivers to ring red 'round the mountain tops and crevices etched into his face, 'round every shatter of bone.

 

"Well, at least you can say you tried," chuckled Davidson, adorned in the light of the moon, "But even you should've known that you can't outrun your creator". The gag burst open to echoes of vitriol and panic.

 

"YOU'RE NOT MY CREATOR" Joshua spat.

 

"I gave you purpose" Ruth enforced, stamping her foot against the marble, "and besides, I wrote you into existence". Delirium forced a snide cackle to burst from the seams of his face.

 

"So you really think you're God, eh?". The woman swaggered back into the apartment, leaning over the degraded puddle of a man.

 

"Oh, Josh. Don't you know what happened to Jamie?"

 

"Mars drove the man insane. You played no part in it". A malicious smile drew itself upon his captor's face.

 

"There's a lot Marshall doesn't want you to know...". Her audience collectively perked up as Josh swallowed back his fears.

 

"Tell me," he instructed, mustering up as much courage as he humanly could, anticipating a slash from the blade kept so handily in the left pocket of her jeans, "TELL ME" he shrieked. The figure once hidden in the back practically floated towards them like some dementor who finally decided to get some clothes which aren't ripped, and began to extend an arm towards Ruth's own, a sign to show the mortal mercy before his final breath.

 

"If these past years have taught us anything," she began, "it's that nobody ever truly dies".

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"Hacking experts! I'll fucking give her hacking experts!" Kezia yelled into the thin air, awakening the poor old woman down the street.

 

"We got the job done though, didn't we?" chuckled David to a glare more furious than the flames of Vesuvius.

 

"We? What do you mean we?". Somehow the gammon became even more of a gammon until Nick placed a hand of reassurance upon his shoulder. Larry, who David was cuddling endearingly would've done the same if he could feel human emotions. Instead, he just scowled at the injustice of not being petted, an injustice Cameron quickly picked up on, dispersing his ingrained fears of societal rejection.

 

The group of them turned a corner into an alleyway and was once again greeted by the poignant aroma of old urine. Yvette almost choked on her own vomit. Throwing caution to the wind, the five of them fished out the door handle and threw themselves inside the apartment and away from the night.

 

Together, they stumbled across the cheap blue carpet - a carpet which seemed as if it had been picked out for a primary school. Scratched leather sofas greeted them to the left and some destitute crack addict's kitchen to the right. Deciding that there was nothing worth noting even on the peeling walls, Kezia made a run for the stairs.

 

It was like a choir of cries that blessed her emotionally scarred ears. There were soft feminine sobs from one bedroom and manly howls of inner turmoil from the other, none of which seemed distinctly baby. Fuck. With a caution in her step, Kezia gently turned the doorknob to the quieter room.

 

Charlotte cowered alone, crawled up on the floor next to her bed, red dress torn and black tights shredded across the fluffy rug in front of her. Her head rested with shame against a wooden bedpost as she allowed her hair to muffle her cries and slowly suffocate her every sensation from out of existence. Eyes which once sparkled with potential were now shut with dejection and self-hate. And she couldn't even muster the energy to face the stranger who now knelt by her side, drying her flushed cheeks with her thumb. From the slashes in the carpet from the heels to the bruises formed by constraint around her arms, it was clear what he had done.

 

"Hey," Kez began in a hushed whisper, "It's okay. You're safe now". Charlotte violently shook her head. Kezia looked back at the clothes, before daring to ask the obvious.

 

"Did Josh do th..."

 

"No.." she dared to breathe, "he was too frightened". Fragile and broken, Charlotte curled into Kezia's arms with a slight hesitation before collapsing back into herself.

 

"Mars" she uttered, "over and over again". There was never a soul braver than Charlotte's.

 

Larry weaved through the crack between the wall and the door, brushing himself against his mother and friend, causing the two of them to lightly giggle.

 

"I missed you..."

 

"I missed you too" Larry meowed. And Charlotte fully got it, for she had learned speak cat. David stumbled into the room, bewildered and afraid, rushing to Charlotte's as soon as he realised she was there. Yvette put a step through the doorway before realising Nick was hesitant, intrigued by the bellows coming from the next door.

 

"They tortured him," began Charlotte, eyes and hands still focussed on Larry, who gave her all the strength she needed in the world, "He keeps screaming about the simulation and how nothing is real and we are all just puppets made to play our parts in a twisted narrative. He thinks we're all just nothings"

 

"They?" inquired Yvette.

 

"Marshall and Ruth"

 

"Ruth?" pushed Kezia, "Ruth who?". Charlotte's voice began to falter.

 

"Ruth Davidson". The five of them revelled in their incredulity.

 

"But Ruth Davidson's dead!".

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
The shadow ripped the blade from out of Ruth Davidson's hands and slashed at the knot in the rope before casually slinking the infant from out of its mother's hands and sending the woman flying with one swift knee to the stomach and shoulder to the head. And from that moment forth, everything had fallen into place. Boris and Nigel, noticeably alarmed about the wellbeing of their master tended to her body had her head crashed against the linoleum, knocking her into the tender embrace of sleep. Josh wriggled free from the chair which bound him and rushed to follow the figure from the echoing halls of Bute House. Together, they hurtled down the stairs, with Josh managing to knock vases from window sills and paintings from walls, damaging enough property to make Historic Scotland weep. Eventually, the duo dashed from the back doors of the Georgian residence and into the light of the stars for they were beginning to shine bright, brighter than they ever did before.

 

A gust of wind spun fabric into the night, unmasking the heroine who became a villain in the face of her friends just to do the right thing. A perfectly imperfect mess of hazel strands met the face of her stalker, and her name was Amber Brown.


	12. With My Eyes Wide Shut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an unexpected error has occurred

  
Begrudgingly, he dragged his heels against the floorboards, unleashing shrieks from beneath the soles of his well-polished clogs. A sly hand waved itself through the young man's locks, brushing streams of confidence into the paths of his disgruntled colleagues. And with a snide chuckle smothered under his, Gideon began to recite his usual vitriol.

 

After deciding that the best way forward was to split the group up, Osborne decided it would be a great idea to raid Marshall's old laboratory. In fact, at face value, it wasn't a bad plan at all. That's if you forget they were trying to keep their whereabouts a state secret from the enemy. And yet, in the face of this, a rather unperturbed Gideon continued his strut into the lion's den, particularly unphased by the shimmer of the warning sign or even the slow, gut-wrenching beeps of the burglary alarm. In a sort of ominous fashion, the rest of the group could tell that this area seemed to be not only a passion but a strong point of his. Who knew the Chancellor with the world's loosest grasp on basic economics would be a dextrous rule-breaker? Everyone, it seemed, further displayed by the prescient glare mounting behind Ed Miliband's eyes.

 

Now, typically, you can gauge just how fucked you are by how shiny the cold grey walls are. And in this situation, they were simply blinding. Too blinding. Willie swallowed hard.

 

"Someone's been here before us" Jenny breathed to the hushed slow clap of Osborne. Nothingness littered the room. The swelling emptiness was only dispelled by the presence of the 4 locked filing cabinets positioned strategically near each door. And for one solitary moment, it seemed as if the group were at a loss.

 

"The noticeboards," began Miliband, "They've hidden the noticeboards behind those cabinets". A great anxiety filled the eyes of Rennie once more as he paired up with Patrick to shift one of them to the side, deliberately barricading the fire exit.

 

"Do you think Osborne knows something?" Patrick whispered, hunched intentionally over the structure to hide the grief lining his face.

 

"I think he knows a lot of things," Willie uttered back at him, "but right now, there's nothing more we can do other than watch what he does. Who knows, maybe we'll learn something..."

 

"Of course we'll learn something," Harvie rebutted, smashing his elbow against the lock in a meagre attempt to open the drawer, "We always do in these situations"

 

"We've been in too many of these situations, though. Don't you think?"

 

"Aye...freaky, eh?". And with an almighty crash, the hinge flung wide open.

 

"Bing-". The walls were screaming, blaring, bouncing panic from wall to wall, red slits of from the sirens burning bright in the blinding reflection. With a twinkle of madness in his eyes, Rennie scooped up the files from within, turning violently to push the cabinet over.

 

"NO!" screamed Osborne, "WE'RE STAYING HERE!". Almost pleading with his own luck, Willie heaved harder against the heavyweight, with Miliband, Jenny and Rennie all scuttling in to join him. That, it seemed, was the final straw.

 

"GET DOWN!" he bellowed, cocking the pistol grasped tightly in his clammy fist, "GET DOWN NOW OR I'LL SHOOT!". By this point, the editor of that failed newspaper was erratically dancing across the room, crashing into the trajectory of the now falling file of documents. And for a moment, it was as if the air had been squeezed from this dull container. Not a breath breathed or a sigh fell. Not an eye blinked or a stomach dropped. Not a clock chimed or a bleep clocked. And in a frantic kerfuffle, Miliband ushered (okay shoved) the rest of them through the fire exit. Besides, it was this or the wrath of the SWAT team.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was an awkward time for both sides of the coin. Silent cries and question why were hidden away behind walls of ice: the red card of expressions. But a spark of longing was all it took to spill their minds.

 

Nicola and Peter sat huddle outside the curtains which smothered peace from the meeting room. One understood and the other remained in the shadows of her eyes. Shame. We all have to face it eventually.

 

The stars, it seemed, were perfectly aligned that night. And a weight which once grew around their joints, grasping and latching and screaming out loud now fell into the pits of the undertow. A long-erased love was fated to ignite. So the stars let the release of the air hit the back of its throat, letting atoms collide.

 

But we all fall apart in the end.

  
  


 

* * *

 

 

  
**23:00**

 

 

War. She stood like war. Constant and brutal. Bloodied and brave. Orchestrated yet far from auspicious. It stained her face, masked her dreams, corrupted the seams which bound her to the screen. Maggie knew how this madness began. Maggie knew full well. The final piece of the puzzle. Ladies and gentlemen welcome to the game that ends it all.

 

Thunder blasted life into the fiery tempest of her mind, red locks sent spiralling into violent waves of ice and rain. The strangest juxtaposition of them all, formed from a series of beautiful lies.

 

Bute house towered, lifting itself onto the tips of its feet, staring down the stranger, the outlier, the war. Its demons had chased its hostages into the dark of the night, deserting the safehouse of a tumour inside. Ruth Davidson, the tumour. Much like the demi-god outside. They were one and the same, alone and unstuck.

 

Amber and Josh scuttled from out of the shadows, clutching onto the life of the babe. And from behind the warrior queen, emerged soup boy in all his generic glory, almost colliding with the already traumatised infant. The four of them exchanged looks of exasperation before realising the silence of the street and the black of the sky and the chaos in Maggie's eyes. Soundly, they agreed to diffuse the tension and approach the looming threat.

 

Soup boy scooped up the newborn, endearingly holding her against the beats of his chest, a rhythm he hoped Amber would one day hear into the night: the heartbeats of affection. But until then, the blonde mess would wait until the breaths of the Earth ceased to pull at his fringe if it meant he could shout out the words brimming on the tip of his tongue out into the wide world. He'd walk the width of the seven seas just to see her smile. And it was a desire pleading to be bellowed down a mountain range.

 

With a certain caution in her step, Amber approached the creature of a woman who stood, noticeably grounded, against the upturned cobbles of Charlotte Square. A tender arm wrapped itself around the weakened figure, eroded away by knowledge and desire as if she was nothing but a shell, a puppet to be played, a character to be used. Nothing. Was there really nothing? A curiosity pushed itself against a crack in her surface and soon enough, the statue fell to pieces, imploding in the arms of her wife's assistant. And the fire which once burned bright in the eyes of the creature lit anew beneath the heroine's cloak.

 

We are broken. W3 aRe br0k3n. THe s7syst3m iS bRRrr0kEn...

 

Ed Miliband and his fellow lab-robbing friends hurried along behind them, their plight grinding to a halt as they found themselves in the trajectory of the one who was missing. The missing piece of the puzzle. Th3 m455inG p43ce 6F mY pU9953.

 

"MAGGIE!" screeched Willie, overcome with grief, "MAGGIE WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?!". The girl just wept, bawling the contents of her shattered mind into Amber's chest. Rennie's cries were so loud that they opened the doors of the battle bus, and caused kitten heels to clap at high speed against the Edinburgh cobbles. Davidson, who once laid unconscious on the other side of the building perked up upon discovery. And so now it was clear to them all: the end was soon to come. But just how long would 60 minutes last?

 

The cloaked woman helped Maggie to her feet, hands acting as scaffolding to her shoulders and she regained the strength to function. Earnestly, the heroine's eyes met those of the abused, wisened fingers rubbing their support away from the structure. Amber Brown shut her eyes and filled herself with the midnight air.

 

"Maggie..." she breathed solemnly, reversing into the glow of the lamppost. A single tear tucked itself back into the ducts of her eyes. From behind her, Nicola was tearing every muscle in her body to get herself down that street.

 

"Oh, Maggie..." she choked. Frantic Scottish noises were now ricocheting all around her.

 

"Margaret Naomi May," Amber concluded, "I let you go".

 

Nothing could be heard but her wails in the night.

 

 

 


	13. Anything Is Possible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moral disintegration. Nothing more needs to be said.

**Sometimes the universe repeats things for a reason.**

 

 

 

 

 

The static shrieked at the fall of its only child. To her knees, tumbling down the rabbit hole she collapsed, scraping shards of her existence against the stone, sending shockwaves through the atmosphere, echoes of a life there once were. Lungs. Her lungs they tore themselves to shreds, expelling lightning, expelling sorrow from the depths of her chest until every last fragment of Margaret was left suspended in the clutches of the midnight air. Everything she once was, crackling and contorting in the moonlight. And like stardust it dispersed into the cosmos, ready to breathe life into the next screaming infant.

 

As if somehow now merciful, the skies opened their arms, parting stormclouds and thunder from out of its view, unleashing which once was a dabble of moonlight onto the floors, onto the cobbles of the silent Edinburgh square. Silent. Untouched. Heavenly peace. The cogs in the clockwork keep turning.

 

A panic still encapsulated the arena, a grief weighing down on them, sticking them all to the ground. Hearts and stomachs gravitated far below their resting places as the crouched figure, once possessed by the erupting madness, was set free. Languid limbs, lifeless eyes, lonely cries: Margaret Naomi May tumbled to the ground. The doors to the birdcage were open wide; it was a passing the wide world was able to see. And they mourned.

 

Amber Brown stood solemn and alone, stricken by the power of her words. It was as if the lightning which no longer plagued the dying air had taken refuge in her blood, fracturing and flooding her system with a weight which words cannot begin to describe. As if a great burden had died before her eyes. As if a God had devoured any last drop of humanity. And it was clear from the crowd of blank faces, that Amber was indeed not the only one.

 

Ruth Davidson was too peering down from her safe house, but with a noticeable lack of apathy. The two of them met gazes, nodding away their secrecy, that they both possessed knowledge of what was to come, mutually agreeing to give the congregation at least half an hour to mourn.

 

Despite knowing all of this, Nicola continued to cower in her own skin, the screams of the girl she took under her wing reverberating throughout her senses, dizzying her mind until she awoke between the curtains of the battle bus.

 

"She exists beyond this dimension," Andy Burnham kept repeating to himself, "What could that possibly mean?". The group of them were gathered around the rows of seats, rifling through the documents they'd retrieved from Marshall's laboratory. Dates and diaries were being passed around, pages being treated with a delicate care as they were flicked through fingers one by one. Flicked past like pages, not memories.

 

"Well," sighed Ed Balls, "she's obviously not two-dimensional"

 

"Ah yes," remarked Philip May, "because Marshall's mother is obviously a rectangle"

 

"Simmer down, Philip" Theresa intervened, a gentle hand placed upon his thigh, "no more. Please, no more". A tear had fallen from the storm clouds in her eyes like an apple from the tree. An apple she had birthed. An apple she had caught. And Nicola could merely just stand there, helpless and unwanted, the middleman between her two old lives.

 

"Ravyn," Josh muttered, "Her name's Ravyn".

 

The distressed woman drew the curtains between herself and the drama, confining herself to her fiance's resting place. Though miraculously resuscitated, nobody expected her to breathe past midnight, giving them all 40 minutes in which to whisper final words, plead their final prayers for the girl whose soul had been reaped.

 

As if nothing had changed, Amber remained fixated, not knowing what to do with her paralysed self or how to react to this numbness. The candles lit around Maggie's sleeping state flickered in her irises, a reminder of the transferred flame, the gifted job, the given purpose. And it was hidden between the lines of Marshall's journal.

 

The wearied old Goddess wrapped an arm around her angel and held her as their souls screamed in an agony purer than the whitest flag. They were at loss. The loss of their friend. The loss of themselves.

 

"Amber," hummed the woman with the lion's mane, "you know this wasn't your fault". A tenderness anchored the two to face each other, foreheads and gazes slowly becoming one...

 

                                                             

                                                  ...Hearts and minds...

  
                                                                                                                 

 

                                                                                                                                     ...Fingers and lips. All entwined. Breathing as one. As if by accident. As if by destiny. Hushed and hiding behind a joint knowledge, the two women chuckled, acknowledging the sweetness of what they'd just done.

 

"This is fifty shades of fucked up" breathed her angel.

 

"I can't believe you'd make that reference on my Christian battle bus" 

 

"I'm too self-aware for my own liking"

 

"Och, aye," the lioness chuckled in between a parting kiss, "join the club"

 

"Maybe another day". The skies blew out the candle, scattering fragments of skin and bone into the background radiation. And with a peace only found in the heavens, the flicker of light in Amber's eyes...was gone. Nobody hadn't the slightest clue what had just happened.

 

"Aren't you going to kiss me now?" cooed Maggie who'd, unknown to anyone, had sat up to admire the sea of flames she'd been bathed in.

 

"Maggie..."

 

"I can't judge you for how you were written". Taken aback, Nicola stood, speechless.

 

"So you know too?". The runaway girl smiled, shifting a hand the dust away the candles. Mischief pirouetted across her expression.

 

"One more time, eh?"

 

"One more time...". There was no looking back. Sturgeon leisurely wandered over to the opening in the sea of flames and slid herself onto the surface. An affectionate hand cupped Maggie's rounded cheeks, lips and tongues and tears pooling into one ocean of goodbye. Gentle moans ricocheted between the walls of their throats, loud enough to indulge the two in pleasure, quiet enough to hide them in the shadows. Skilled yet shaking hands wizened by weeks of neglect found themselves adventuring past the thin fabrics of her emerald dress, tracing maps atop her matching lingerie.

 

"Just for mummy" the Goddess breathed, one arm wrapped around and clutching at her princess.

 

"Just for mummy..." she whispered back. Kisses found themselves roughly littered down the maiden's entranced physique until they came to meet the wizened woman's hand. Exchanging smirks, the cravings of the two of them thrust the fabric aside, sending tongues to hips, lapping up the antics of her lust-consumed angel.

 

The candlelight seemed to pool into their visions, the blurs and the blending of its magnificent yellow aura decorating their loss of control. A necessary loss. A loss spanning the lengths of Nicola's time. A life she's longed to let go. A loss of power. A hand to guide her away from the limelight, to bathe her in the rush of living life like a flicker of Sun.

 

Maggie threw her head back, her eyes rolling and throat straining against the longing to moan her protector's name beyond the curtains. She could feel it. It was coming. She was coming. The happening Ruth's experiments had caused to become borderline torture. And yet here, far away from her memories, Maggie had never felt more alive.

 

Noticing this seismic change in behaviour, Nicola replaced the doings of her tongue with the speedy vibrations of her fingertips, rising to score love-bites against her lover's throat.

 

"Say it" Nicola groaned, panting against the force of her affection, nuzzles her face against the young woman's chest.

 

"Mu-" stumbled Maggie as she gasped for breath of her own, eyes stinging against the force of her own desire. Nicola pushed her lips to her ears, playfully tugging at fistfuls of hair with her free hand.

 

"Scream it in my fucking ear," she ordered in a daze.

 

"Muh-". So the woman worked faster and faster and harder and harder, pinning her subject against the table graced with pools of natural lubricant. Now face to face, mouth to mouth, life to life, the angel had no choice. Enveloped by the rush of her arteries, the princess craned her back, spilling her dirty secrets into the midnight air at the peak of her orgasm, falling on a breath back to a state of peace.

 

"Despite the moral ambiguity," Nicola began, covering her lover's body with the silk dress, "I still find that really fucking hot". Margaret blushed, joining her in sliding off the table, balancing on her toes for another kiss. The two of them spun around, one lifting the other in a circle of euphoric bliss before Leanne and Theresa rushed in to investigate to the commotion. Nicola pulled her in closer. The mother and partner smiled, deciding to join them in a group embrace. Taken aback by the sudden influx of affection, Leanne and Theresa just smiled. And hey, I bet you thought it was the other way around.

 

Gathered back in the comfy rows, Josh sat glancing over the pages of his former master's diary, harbouring hoarded secrets and hopeless dreams.

 

"I think Ravyn is more of an idea than a physical being," he began, "Yes, she was his mother, but a mother who disappeared, destroyed at the hands of knowledge beyond this realm".

 

"What do you mean 'beyond this realm'?" questioned Corbyn, with Larry, curled up in his arms.

 

"None of this is real, Jeremy. We're all just ideas which have come to fruition, been weaved into a narrative and to play part in another's game. Or, at least, that's what he'd tell me"

 

"Marshall?" interrupted Leanne.

 

"Precisely. Marshall believed that his mother was removed from the narrative, disintegrated, poof, gone". The room had been inundated with a heavy silence, concentration clinging on with bated breath.

 

"He then found Ruth and they bonded over this idea of control. Specifically, they wished to control the narrative they were now aware of. Knowing the purposelessness of their lives, I guess they threw caution to the wind and went all out, corrupting a soul who'd go on to be Maggie's own...and now no longer". Beams of appreciation drifted towards the figure draped in emerald, with Nicola now holding her closer, allowing the nostalgia to seal her eyes.

 

"A force so powerful," Corbyn began, stroking sweet Larry-poo to sleep, "they'd shed the blood of a thousand to protect"

 

"A force which could give them the power they so desire, which leads me onto why they killed you. And Leanne. And Theresa and Philip. Anyone who stood in the way of them and that soul who could lead them to freedom, they'd slice through. You were just minor characters in their eyes. Plot filler, if you'd like. And they'd kill and kill again until they could regain control over but time kept repeating and their patience grew thin"

 

"And so we're back here," continued Kezia, cradling Maggie's first-born in her arms, "at 10 minutes to 12".

 

"No one knows why this series of events keeps repeating but I do know this. Marshall told me of one of Ruth's visions before she died. He spoke of a loaded gun, an impossible child and a raven. Once the three become one - he'd say - the creation will reject its creator, and the simulation will reject its print"

 

"Ruth wasn't trying to kill Nicola, then, was she?"

 

"Not at all"

 

"There were ravens perched upon the bus stop, that night" trembled Leanne, "I can still hear them drone"

 

"So what do we do?" Cameron inquired, "If we stop them, we're rejecting the narrative. If we don't, they're rejecting the narrative. What happens then? Do we all die? What happens when the simulation breaks?"

 

"No one knows, David" purred Jeremy, "but I think one thing is clear. Whatever happens after this is down to the creator. Let's just hope they have a conscience"

 

"But, as Mars liked to put it," finished Josh, "if the creator had a conscience, why would they let us be in this situation? Think about it. Nicola turned insatiably promiscuous and developed the female equivalent of a daddy kink. The rest of the Scots were held hostage by David Cameron. Nigel Farage hit Tim Farron with a bus. An entire section of the Conservative party become terrorists with Ruth Davidson going on a murderous rampage. And the American fucking government allowed someone to accidentally create a rift in reality itself. What kind of powerful creator does that?!". At that moment, a torn piece of lined paper materialised in the thin air and drifted down towards him. Josh snatched it, half expecting him to have to yell 'HARRY POTTER' afterwards.

 

**_Whatever you say next, I'm judging you._ **   
**_-the author_ **

****

At a loss, the young soul shut his mouth before the author came up with another clever idea to get them all killed. Or worse - expelled.

 

 

* * *

 

  
Draped in the shadows of her mind, the remnants of Ruth Davidson trundled back towards the balcony. Flakes of life ran off her like snow against flame. Slowly melting away until all that remained...

 

...all that...

 

 

 

 

 

Draped in the shadows of the hallway, the figure of war advanced. Flakes of a previous life ran off her like snow against flame. Hurriedly melting away to make room for the final piece of the jigsaw: Ravyn. And she cloaked herself in the absence of children's dreams.

 

Like an explosion, the doors to the balcony blasted upon, glass splintering, cascading like daggers across the ground. Like lightning slashing at her servants' ankles. Like a horror show unfolding before the majesty of the Edinburgh skies.

 

A malice had been reborn.

 

Jet black hair slithered itself further down the back of her blood red dress which grew from beneath the rips of Ruth's clothing. Tearing viciously at the seams, Ravyn shred her white shirt in two and let it fall to the floor, stepping with style from out of her baggy jeans, unveiling a flawless stride carried by six-inch heels sharp enough to kill a man. An hourglass figure in the beauty of the moonlight, Ravyn slid a pistol from her bra and cocked it with ease, deciding on resting her figure against the brickwork of the bannister. The colour of a dark Sun, her hair waltzed imposingly in the midnight breeze with a keen precision. And reflecting the madness within was none other than those eyes which had glowed green in the body of another for so...so long. Eyes which now gleamed and channelled through the physique of their rightful owner. Eyes which were no longer a beacon of hope, but a mere child of impossibility.

 

A loaded gun. An impossible child. A raven.

 

"You were gonnae ask me why I chose to resurrect you," the figure began, turning her face to the wind. A shaken Marshall nodded fervently, with a distinct obedience in his child-like eyes. For a moment, he was no longer the man, the monster he'd grown to be.

 

Ravyn, whose ageing had paused when she was forced into hibernation, swaggered over to him. They were the same age, shared the same blood and yet were worlds apart. Every day since the age of six, Marshall had yearned to see his mother again.

 

"Mummy will save me" he'd tell himself as he'd be beaten to the floor by the man she'd left behind, "Mummy will save me now". And now she'd come, but it was simply not how he'd pictured it. Was it just the shock? Was Ruth Ravyn all along?

 

Mars slowly raised his hand, signalling to a ring on his left; the woman caressed his pale complexion and just smiled.

 

"But we planned to get married"

 

"Everyone has these days" Ravyn hummed, stepping in closer, "But who says it means anything"

 

"You're my actual mo-"

 

"The state thinks I'm dead. Technically, you'd be marrying Ruth"

 

"Why are you okay with this?"

 

"I guess I just spent too much time cooped up in Margaret's head". Ravyn turned on her heel, walking back over to the balcony to gaze over the Edinburgh skylines.

 

"Wait!" stammered Mars, falling to his knees, "I'll do anything. But you have to promise me one thing"

 

"And what's that?". The woman made her way back over to the helpless man whose brain was undergoing some serious moral confusion, cupping his cheek and crouching beside him.

 

"That you'll never leave me again"

 

"Oh sweetheart," she sighed, leaning in for a kiss "You'd know I'd never do that".

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Sometimes the universe repeats things for a reason. But it doesn't mean it's right.**


	14. If I Just Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything happens for a reason.

" **Everything happens for a reason, my dear** " Ravyn began, clamouring down the hallway and into Nicola's dressing room, "The author obviously chose to let me free, knowing full well of the chaos I can inflict. I'm certain they'll let me win". Her frightened but ever obedient son shot her a quizzical expression.

 

"But why? The author has clearly been on the side of those battle bus nonces for quite some time"

 

"They're simply making a point about who wins in the end. Plus it's more drama, more action, more for the readership to latch onto. Supply and demand, Marshall. Supply. And. Fucking. Demand". Meanwhile, Ravyn was rifling through Sturgeon's makeup bag and, upon this utterance, had begun applying mascara in massive swoops against her alluring eyelashes.

 

"I don't trust this"

 

"You never do," Ravyn scathed, dropping the bottle and searching frantically for an eyeliner "and good on you. For it seems I've raised you well". A beam of delight lit up the room as the storm of an individual finished up.

 

"Thank you, Mum"

 

"It's ma'am from now on".

 

"Thanks...Ma'am"

 

"Good boy". The woman circled back over to him, skimming her eyes across his bold appearance, checking for a symptom unknown.

 

"You're frustrated," she remarked, puckering her lips against a shade of fresh crimson.

 

"And what would tell you that...ma'am?" he sneered. Seductively, she sauntered over to him, placing a hand against his thigh.

 

"Tell me, who do you think I am?"

 

"An image of my mother...projected by a soul...a soul which shows whatever we want it to see-"

 

"-and makes happen whatever we want to happen"

 

"But I don't want to shag my mother"

 

"Yes, but you do want to shag. And you do want to see your mother. And somehow, the two things you want most in the world have blended together. Like a package," Ravyn advanced, cupping a hand around a bulge, "like a present from the universe. I won't tell you why or what it's for, but one can only deduce that it's fair"

 

"Your accent...it's-"

 

"-changed. You've craved power for so long now, Marshall. Power over the strong". The couple were now perfectly entwined against a corner of cold, white wall, lips brushing, hands touching, breathing almost as one.

 

"But the universe isn't that kind," he breathed in return, gently rushing a hand against the soul's cheek and another around her hips, "what if this is a test?". Marshall pushed Ravyn out of the corner and against the wall, inviting the hourglass to wrap a leg around him, letting him feel the rising heat between her inner thighs.

 

"Because if you don't help yourself," the echo hummed, rubbing herself against his shaft, "and show some self-control...you could be redeemed by the few willing to forget the wrongs you cannot right". A slow, guttural moan erupted from her chest as he responded to her gentle humping with a force of his own.

 

"But if I do," he began, pausing to revel in his palpitating lust, "I'll always be the villain". Ravyn broke the exchange to shimmy him onto his back, his body now driven by a primal urge, resting against a pool of moonlight scattered across the carpet.

 

"Isn't that what turns you on?" smirked the spirit.

 

"Yeah..." sighed Marshall, "...but not any more". He sat up, thoughts fixated on the majesty of the sky.

 

"I created you" he began "because I thought you would show me the stars"

 

"A way out, don't you mean? From this calculated life". Ravyn perched down beside him, the two of them now staring out the window, in the splendour of a revelation.

 

"Who I became was no more than a monster". The spirit's eyebrows jostled.

 

"And you fully accept that?"

 

"Til the end"

 

"Well". Normal scheduling had certainly been disrupted.

 

"This is the biggest cockblock I've had in, well, ever"

 

"Did you really think I was being serious?". Ravyn scowled.

 

"On days like these, I hope the author kills you off"

 

"Not before I fuck you, missus"

 

"Not before you skip the foreplay, cockblock".

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The crowd of them had had enough.

 

"FOR FUCK SAKES," said Rennie, calmly, "We just wanted some fresh fucking air to put this God-forsaken CHILD to sleep and all Ruth Davidson had to do was NOT BLOW UP OUR BLOODY VAN"

 

"Oh?" Farron interjected, "So it's a van now?"

 

"Can you lot just sHUt thae fUCK UP!" Kezia screamed, further disturbing the infant, "We're trying to come up with a plan to save our asses, naw our bus"

 

"But Kezia..." the duo whined in unison.

 

"No buts. Except for Jenny's. Jenny's is my favourite". They were one hell of a farce, the lot of them. Caroline Lucas had climbed up a tree with a telescope - not with the intention of being a peeping Tom, though, that possibility could no longer be ignored.

 

"That poor prostitute..."

 

"Are you sure that's naw Ruth Davidson he's fucking?" Nicola yelled from below her.

 

"100% certain that she's in no way, shape or form, the corpse of Ruth Davidson"

 

"Shame...would've been a stellar addition to his collection of morally reprehensible titles"

 

"Ah yes," began Willie Rennie, stepping from the shadows of smoke now billowing from the battle bus, "Marshall: serial murderer, rapist and necrophile. Applying here for marketing positions". Laughter erupted from below, but Caroline had spotted something even more curious on the streets of Charlotte Square.

 

"Awh, Maggie, " Nicola jeered to the repulsion of Theresa May, "who knew your soul was so thirsting for penis?"

 

"Your fault for never purchasing a strap-on". The rest of the Mays were now choking on their own vomit.

 

"Sorry to interrupt the family reunion," interjected Lucas, "but I think a rather drunk Nigel Farage is approaching from beyond. Or, at least, trying to..."

 

"Where is he?"

 

"On the steps of Bute House"

 

"WHAT?!" Nicola cried, "Right, I'm off tae gi' 'im a piece of my mind"

 

"Count me in" returned Caroline, hopping down from the branch.

 

"And me" chimed Willie, quickly joined by Andy and Yvette and both Eds and Jeremy. And then everyone else. The grande socialist team were on the move again.

 

Back on the cobbles which marked the resting place of Maggie's soul, stood Nicola's minions in formation, with Margaret pushing to the front to stop the only love she knew from being harmed at the hands of such a triviality. Farage stumbled towards them. Well, he rolled...down the remaining steps. Maybe even sprawled himself out in drunken incredulity. Intoxicated but determined, he raised his commanding finger, pointing it at the First Minister of Scotland.

 

"Giiiive m-m-meeee y-y-youurrrrr iiiinfant"

 

"Excuse me?"

 

"I saiddd. Giiiive me-"

 

"-I heard what you said, Nigel. But under child protection laws I'm-"

 

"-fucking EU". Maggie expressed her condolences for Nicola having to witness that. And she accepted.

 

The front door burst open to Ravyn, whose dress a background figure tugged at, swaggering out onto the main stage, hands swinging around to clasp into a fist.

 

"Well well" the spirit commanded, "look what the cat dragged in"

 

"Well technically-"

 

"-You're in my presence, Sturgeon. That is surely enough". Every clap against the staircase created a thud in the hearts of the silenced crowd. Except in Nigel's, for he doesn't seem to have one. Nicola cocked an eyebrow and sniggered.

 

"And your name is?". The woman merely smirked.

 

"Ravyn"

 

"...I see"

 

"Now, if your puny human friends don't mind, I'd quite like to have a look at that girl of yours"

 

"Sure," Miliband remarked, shoving Willie into the spotlight.

 

"The infant". The entire team were now sacrificing a rather offended leader of the Scottish liberal democrats.

 

"Guys!". Ravyn pulled the pistol from out of her bra and aimed it at Maggie's forehead, a sadistic grin ravaging her painted expression.

 

"Her infant"

 

"No". From behind, Boris Johnson attempted to ambush Kezia Dugdale, snatching the bundle of cloths from her grasp. Unfortunately for him, he was met with an almighty punch in the nose, courtesy of a newly apparated Amber Brown. Kneeing him in the bollocks, Amber took back what wasn't his and instead gave the baby girl to Theresa for safe keeping.

 

"Amber!" gasped Nicola, as if an ashamed mother.

 

"What?"

 

"So that's how we're going to play, are we?" Ravyn intervened, glaring at the night sky, "I see". The spirit raised her commanding hand, slashing the air and, consequently, the throat of Amber Brown: the second casualty of the pavement. Choking on the colour of the strange spirit's dress, Amber stumbled backwards, falling to her knees and crumbling away, back into the embrace of the night.

 

In an ostensible retaliation, a line scorched itself between the sadist and the crowd, digging deep down into the surface, resurfacing tremors and chasms from beneath; it seemed, if there was an author, they simply weren't having Ravyn's bullshit today.

 

Maggie's pearls for irises, once spiralling with vivacity, met them once more, staring Ravyn down. The ground was opening between them. And the idea of justice seemed to be slipping from between her fingertips. Four steps backwards. And at a run, the experimental child leapt to the cries of her protectors. It took three people to restrain Nicola that night. And as the two feet of Margaret landed safely on the isolated side, she turned her head and strode into a run.

 

Clamouring once again across carpets and ancient floorboards, Ravyn and Maggie were running for their lives. Sending statues into a spin and brushing cloth against painted faces, it was clear the two of them had one ultimate goal: to end this farce once and for all. And both wanted that power in their hands.

 

Ravyn, being a soul and all, decided she'd speed away, flying up flights of stairs just to taunt her opponent; cackles and joyous screams ensued, echoing from the top floor, reverberating across beams and down bannisters.

 

Marshall was a wall in Margaret's path. Desperately, she'd attempt to push past or sneak around him, but it was no use. That man - if you could even call him a man - was a force to be reckoned with.

 

Freeze. A soft fur was now brushing against and circling Maggie's ankles. Like a white cat who'd had a bucket of brown paint thrown down on it swept Larry. And he, for one reason or another, was the perfect match to take the bad man down. A tumultuous hiss and pounce later, and Marshall let out a glorious howl of pain as manicured claws lacerated the insides of his scrotum.

 

"Thanks, Larry," Margaret remarked, an intense reverence lighting up her appearance.

 

"No problem," he meowed back. And of course, Maggie could understand him, because Larrypoo's far more than a fucking cat. He's a way of living.

 

Onwards and upwards, she sought to march on to the top, but Marshall had other plans - and he was now chasing his desires. The hunter and the hunted. The scientist and the subject. Marshall swallowed his pride and willed away the throbbing pain, kicking off the feline who had seemingly been trained in violent castration, heaving his determined body up the building. And, upon reaching the landing, the bad man was victorious, locking a hand around her ankle, and yanking himself towards her. At that moment, all was lost.

 

But Margaret was agile, shoving his weight into the painting to her left, sending the two objects tumbling and smashing against the force of gravity. She was victorious. She could do anything she put her mind to. And, for the first time in a long time, Maggie could do anything she wanted.

 

"Honestly," Ravyn cooed from the loft hatch, "What do you have against the National Trust?". That fire in the pit of her stomach now raging, driving Maggie to sprint towards the roof, practically jumping up the ladder and landing in a power pose on her feet atop the Georgian manor. She had never felt more alive.

 

"Look at the nerve on you," the spirit remarked, "you don't have a weapon and yet, here you stand, facing your maker". Ravyn had her pistol locked and loaded, coddled between her fingers.

 

"Oh, believe me, I do. And you're not my maker"

 

"I made your life, piece by piece, just how you wanted it. I made you"

 

"I envisioned those ideas, breathed life into my own dreams. You were just the catalyst. And you needed genetic blueprints to be free. You needed me. I made you"

 

"Maybe we got off on the wrong foot," Ravyn interjected, twiddling her gun, "After all, we all know who truly created us all"

 

"And that ends today"

 

"And by my hand. It's why I was set free, after all"

 

"Or perhaps," Maggie began, circling her opponent, "to leave no stone unturned. Or to provide an explanation-"

 

"-to show that no one is truly special. We are all merely possessed by our dreams and drunk on our ideas"

 

"But it's what makes us all. Not a soul or a spirit but a drive and a vision"

 

"You can't glorify a fucked up fairytale, Margaret"

 

"I am merely glorifying the principles, not the backdrop, Ravyn"

 

"Is this the author trying to justify their own fuck-ups in creating us?" she whined, voice thick with sarcasm, face ripe for punching, "Perhaps it's better if you just stop writing us into existence and get an actual-"

 

"-life. And if you're out there," the heroine began, staring at the stars alongside her nemesis, shut eyes channelling her ardent hopes and desires, "please, keep writing. Life is what you're writing"

 

"You're just scared of death"

 

"Yet I'm not the one who's shaking". The ground was. The Earth was. The sky was. The sound was. The static groaned against the confrontation, an almighty wind whipping through every last strand of hair of being until there was nothing left to comb through but flesh and bone. Ravyn swallowed hard.

 

"Then tell me," she instructed, "what's your weapon?"

 

"This". Margaret snatched forth the same document Amber and Nicola had been skimming through throughout her pregnancy. It was a sort of code, though not an enigma in that sense, but the ending of a story, directions to the revelation that was soon to come.

 

A primal fear flung itself from the depths of Ravyn's gut into the very green eyes which once radiated hope.

 

"Well, I never..."

 

"I know my ending, Ravyn. Do you know yours?"

 

"I have faith enough"

 

"Faith," Maggie iterated, "doesn't matter right now. Right now, it merely matters what you stand for and where you do it. Right now, it matters how you've let yourself be shaped by rhetoric and metaphors and dialogue and description". The heroine paused for a breath, mentally urging herself to face her own mortality.

 

"Right now, everything we could say or do to change ourselves in the eyes of the readership, matters not. Can't you see? This is the ending sequence. I have the papers in my hands!" she implored, "I have my ending written in my genes, coding words as a means of explanation for an audience who wouldn't even care if the author tried rights our wrongs because they're wrong. We don't matter, Ravyn. What matters is what we're made to do". Tears like streams had etched rivers into the cowering woman's face, hysteria taking the wheel of allowing pieces of her mind to come flooding out. Wizened screams were colliding inside of them both. For the loss of one's self is the greatest agony of them all.

 

"So what are you going to do about it?" Ravyn lamented, arms open wide, "Push me?! You're going to have to do far more to unstick my character from the page!"

 

"Your character?!"

 

"Yes, Margaret. My own! I have existed longer than you have been born! Longer than that document! Longer than your own mother! If there's anything I deserve, it's to be able to call something my own. And this is it"

 

"Your life?"

 

"No, yours". Maggie shook her head.

 

"Your past was written for you. My entire life was. You have merely been alive for half a chapter. I have been alive for more than anyone put together. Truly alive. But this isn't a matter of who deserves what. You want power. I want closure"

 

"Same difference"

 

"We can't go around claiming fame to something that isn't ours"

 

"I certainly wouldn't call half a soul mine. Not yet, anyway"

 

"You want it? Don't you?"

 

"What's clearly mine and remains in your infant? Yes. Yes I fucking want it"

 

"It's hers to keep"

 

"She doesn't even have a name!"

 

"Give me your hand"

 

"Give me your child"

 

"No, seriously, Ravyn. Give me your hand. Trust me". And her fears were right. Behind the fragmented soul rose an amalgamation of sorts, with rubble and rubbish all colliding into one ring, circling like a black hole, faster and faster until a vacuum broke free from reality, tearing apart the isolated building brick by boring brick, pane by banal pane, gun by glorified gun. And Margaret stood tall.

 

Hand still outstretched, the offer remained. A chance at redemption. Another chance at life. Or a death bleaker than the future of the liberal democrats. The world sat waiting, hooked on bated breath, latching onto the byproducts of fantasy as flesh was ripped metaphorically from its bone.

 

The roof hatch crashed open once again to the resurgence of a desolate son.

 

"DON'T DO IT!" he bellowed over the storm, "MUM! PLEASE!"

 

"I'M NOT YOUR MOTHER!" she shrieked back, snatching away the veil of egotism which kept her from crying, "I AM A MERE GHOST!"

 

"I DON'T CARE! YOU WERE WRITTEN LIKE THIS FOR A REASON, RIGHT? LET ME SAVE YOU! IT'S A TRICK! A TRAP!"

 

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MAKES YOU?"

 

"A hero" Marshall stated as the atmosphere died down. Ravyn scoffed.

 

"Excuse me?"

 

"Give me the power, ma'am, please. Give it to me"

 

"Let me die as what I was, Mars. Albeit, a tool with no moral compass. But a stubborn tool. A tool who died standing by what she believed in. Nothing more. Nothing less. I will not let you save my life"

 

"What happened to not conceding?!" Marshall exclaimed in utter bewilderment, "You're showing them mercy! You're showing them fear! You're giving in!". He pointed wildly at a singular figure.

 

"I'm afraid, Marshall, this is the bravest thing I can do"

 

"I'll push her"

 

"Then you'll prove yourself a coward"

 

"I want to save you"

 

"Save your breath". The wind speed began to pick up once again, the vacuum behind the spirit raging on into the night. The document clutched in Maggie's fist shredded itself and combusted, sending embers of dialogue and similes and potential spinning around her wise hand which still presented itself, outstretched. A fire, like a soul, was born in her palm as the velocity and subsequent fear for Ravyn's life peaked. The false mother turned to face the broken boy.

 

"This is what truly makes a man, Marshall. Not power or greed, but acceptance in the face of death. Purify that essence and spread it across your lifespan and you get what you should live it by: a formula of inherent kindness and courage and knowledge that cannot be changed. You get wisdom. Or, as it's otherwise known, me. Be wise...". The embers conjoining as one to beam a ray of sunlight through the spirit's body, tearing every last leafy green fragment from their bonds and hurtling them into the vacuum behind. The heat was almost unbearable but the scene was spectacular to watch. And within a flutter of a heartbeat, the corrupted soul had been purged from the face of the shaking Earth, and so, in a strange turn of events, had Marshall.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dabbles of morning light emerged through the windows of Downing Street as Nicola thrust open the blinds. The glory of the present day had never felt so sweet. A sweet, dewy breeze swept itself into the bedroom, carrying with it the songs of the bagpipe which Theresa had so happily encouraged to be stationed on the street. They were to awake all of London to the tune of 'Amazing Grace', aptly chosen to honour the naming of the new Prime Minister's child: Grace. And Nicola couldn't be happier to be by her side.

 

Watching your fiancée win a landslide majority brought tears of joy to the First Minister's eyes. She wasn't even mad that she lost a few seats here and there, though vowed to get her back next time with a majority of her own.

 

The wee girl's eyes glowed like her mother's once did but this time with a gorgeous cyan, decorated with diamonds and crystallised patterns, shooting beauty into the eyes of the beholder with every curious glance.

 

Her hair, though genetically not meant to be, radiated a hopeful blonde and curled at the tips. And with a gentle hand, Nicola ran her affectionate hand through it, admiring the soft complexity of both the hair and the human.

 

Still strewn across the bed, Maggie stirred at the beams of the sun.

 

"Good morning, blossom"

 

"Morning," she groaned, "sweetie". Still intoxicated by sleep, the PM chuckled.

 

"How are you today?" Maggie quizzed.

 

"Better than I was doing yesterday, anyway" she replied.

 

"What even was yesterday?". Nicola tapped her nose.

 

"I honestly do not have a clue". The woman leaned in for a kiss.

 

"Your mother turned up earlier" Nicola began, "and managed to actually bake some jam tarts without having sex". Muffled giggling ensued.

 

"Where did she go then?"

 

"Back through the wall, my dear. And, if I'm not mistaken, the cracks have all sealed"

 

"That's a shame". Holding the infant closer to her chest, Nicola leaned over her mistress and cupped a warm hand around her cheek.

 

"At least Grace will know that her grandmother died protecting the ones she loved"

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

  
Looking out onto the world, Margaret Naomi May paced the balcony cradling her pride and joy in her capable hands. One simply didn't know what to do with her weekend mornings. Indulgently, the Prime Minister brushed her nose against her child's, lightly tickling her to much joy.

 

"So," she babbled, "what do you do from here, Gracey?"

 

"Whatever you want to do," replied a familiar voice, "Your ability to thrive for success has never changed". From amongst the shadows - and to much confusion - she emerged unscathed: Amber Brown.

 

"What is it with you and not dying?" Margaret exclaimed.

 

"I guess the author just likes me too much". Maggie squinted.

 

"And yet, she makes you suffer". Amber shrugged.

 

"It's the way of the writer". The two of them giggled nostalgically in the presence of the approaching midday, graced by the wafts of a cooked breakfast permeating through the building. Surprisingly, and with enough attention, Nicola had managed to learn how to cook.

 

Amber diverted her attention back to the Prime Minister.

 

"Was thinking maybe, perhaps, one day, when this all blows over, of running off to the Outer Hebrides to restart my life as a gay sheep farmer" Amber proposed.

 

"Now that's a mood"

 

"Join me?". The majesty of the scenario was certainly having its persuasive effects on Margaret.

 

"I would..."

 

"Come on! Grace and Nicola can join! It'll be great fun! But hey, I'll give you some time to mull it over if you're not sure". The woman smirked, pacing back towards the kitchen, shutting the door behind her. Maggie sighed.

 

"I don't even know who I truly am. But I was woven in the wind. Or, at least, those are the words which felt most natural". With a fluency, Maggie began to recite and recircle the balcony.

 

"You know, kid, I had two poems to tell you, but now I have three. They are tales I thought up in a dream, spelling out where we came from, what we did and why we stayed strong. And they flow through the veins of you and I...

 

**So Here I Am.**

 

  
**All Your Thoughts And Imperfections,**

  
**Woven In My Words.**

  
**And Here I Stand**

  
**Unafraid,**

  
**Unashamed,**

  
**Unrestrained,**

  
**Letting My Past Melt Like Snow.**

  
**Slipping Through The Cracks,**

  
**I Carve Out My Own Destiny.**

  
**For As A Child Of Time,**

  
**With My Eyes Wide Shut,**

  
**Anything Is Possible,**

 

  
**If I Just Believe..**."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"So is that a 'yes' for the gay farming adventure?"

 

"You bet it is"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for keeping up with this series! I have no darn idea what I'm going to do with my life post-Maggie but let it be known they I had a whale of a time writing this moral fuckfest and have rounded it off in a way which prevents me from regretting it. Thank you to everyone who has read this and offered their unwavering support over the last 2 years, namely Amber (who I made into a character :3 ) whom I would never have carried this fanfiction through without. Also, shout out to Isobel for not judging me throughout this ordeal (I refuse to call it a journey) and for actually expressing interest in the serious as a whole even if it was through memeing the living daylights out of it. In conclusion, I appreciate every single one of you who have read this far and I hope you've had as much fun reading it as I have writing it!


End file.
